


Letters From the Void Redux

by justanotherrollingstony (adoctoraday)



Series: Letters to My Love [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Awesome Karen Page, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Coming Untouched, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escort Service, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kneeling, Letters, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Lives, Nipple Clamps, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Pet Names, Shuri (Marvel) Lives, Slow Burn, Smut, Some canon compliance, Spanking, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Submission, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony drinks too much, Top Tony Stark, Wakanda (Marvel), Wakandan Technology, Whump, but mostly not, falling back in love, fuck endgame and the russos honestly, karen page & tony stark friendship, mention of prostitution, steve and tony are both in a bad place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-12-14 11:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 62,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21015179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoctoraday/pseuds/justanotherrollingstony
Summary: Tony,I’m surprised you ever gave me the chance to know you after the things I said when we met. But when I saw you fly that nuke into the sky, knowing it was a one way trip, I knew then how wrong I was. You didn’t just lie down on the wire, you threw yourself headlong into the fray, knowing it would mean your death, because it was the right thing to do.You’ve been on that wire for years Tony, protecting humanity, saving lives, doing good. You’re a better man than I ever gave you credit for, a better man than me because you were always a friend when I needed you.I understand if you never want to see me again after all the ways I’ve let you down, I’ll understand. I’ll go away Tony, I’ll give you whatever you want, because you’re everything to me, and I owe you that.SteveTony folds the letter carefully and tucks it into his pocket, stares out the window at the stars, and proceeds to get blind drunk.





	1. Year One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tina_v](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tina_v/gifts).

> Hello all, I'm so happy to present this story to my fellow stony's for your enjoyment. This story is a labor of love that was originally written as the one shot "Letters from the Void" but the idea just wouldn't leave me alone, so here we are! 
> 
> There will be heaps of angst and hurt and comfort because well, I'm a monster who LOVES angst and I wanted to see that breach between Tony and Steve investigated a little more deeply than we got in Endgame. I have NO hate for either Tony or Steve, but they are working through their shit which means they are going to say and do hurtful things(mostly Tony lashing out at Steve because yanno, lying, betrayal, etc.) and there's going to be hurt feelings abound. 
> 
> This will be a slow burn and while I have tried to tag as thoroughly as possible, if you feel I've missed something, please let me know! I do hope that ultimately, you enjoy this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I would also like to thank my hermana, Tina, for helping me with this story. She deserves at least 12% of the credit for reading, offering crucial plot suggestions and walking me back from the cliff when I was certain I wouldn't be able to finish. Darling, this one's for you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/3/2020: I’ve updated some of the scenes with little bits here and there to help continuity when I post the one shots from this universe, but overall it has stayed the same.

* * *

Steve slips away as Tony’s taken to the medical ward, his skeletal frame scarily still. He shuts the bathroom door behind him with a resounding slam, locks it for good measure as he feels himself unraveling. 

_ Liar _

_ No trust _

He bites back bile and whirls, slams his fist into tiling and _ yes _ that’s it, pain, _ pain _ is what he needs, _ deserves, _so he does it again and again and again till there’s a hole a foot wide and ten inches deep in the steel and concrete and his hand is slick with blood.

Lurching away, he leans heavily against the sink on one hand, breaths coming in ragged sobs, tearing out of chest until he thinks he’ll be sick. Cold sweat coats his neck and his eyes burn with tears and the bile in his throat tastes like regret, but it’s all his fault, _ all _ of it—the pain and regret and the brokenness he’d seen in Tony’s eyes. 

He was the one to catch Tony when he stumbled out of the spaceship, too thin and weak to stand on his own.

He was the one to answer that questioning look when Tony searched for Pepper.

He was the one who held Tony when he broke and cried; his losses too tremendous to bear, until Nebula had carefully pried Tony from his arms and guided him inside gently, as though he was made of glass.

Breakable

_ Broken _

His fault

Because he’s a _ liar_.

He gasps and sobs, stumbling back and curls against the wall, a whine of despair choking in his throat as he weeps, mourning what he’d done, what he’s taken from Tony, from _ them_. 

_ No trust _

_ Liar _

Blood drips steadily off his hand onto the tiling below—_ drip drip drip _

_ Liar Liar Liar _

* * *

It’s quiet when he goes into Tony’s room; the other remaining Avengers have gone to bed for the night, the trauma of the day overwhelming the senses of most ordinary humans. 

It was a shame then, that Steve wasn’t ordinary. 

He stands in the doorway of Tony’s room, watching the UV light play over his pasty skin and turn it an eerie shade of purple that’s far too reminiscent of Thanos for his comfort. 

The weight of the housing unit Tony had ripped from his chest is like a ten ton boulder in his hand, weighing him down like the world on the shoulders of Atlas. 

He’d thought Rhodey—Colonel Rhodes—he corrects mentally, would be here keeping an eye on Tony, keeping Steve _away_, but perhaps the older man needs his rest too. 

Whatever the reason, he’s free to edge forward and stand at Tony’s side, watching his too thin chest rise and fall unevenly. Dr. Cho had wanted him stable before being moved to the cradle; she had a pinched look to her face when she had given the team the diagnosis.

Tony had lost nearly thirty pounds, his muscles atrophying from starvation, and his lungs, heart and immune system were all compromised by starvation, dehydration and long term exposure to extremely high levels of gamma radiation. 

He swallows hard, knees weak and arms heavy, sits—slumps really—onto the bed beside Tony and watches him sleep. His eyes move slowly behind paper thin lids, veins delicate and blue against his ghostly skin. 

Tony’s skin feels like parchment when he takes his hand, gentle so as to not wake him, using his thumb to trace the sharp lines of his knuckles over and over again. 

His throat feels thick, tongue too heavy to speak everything he wants to say. 

Tears burn in his eyes and he looks away, shoulders curling in as his breath hitches and he sobs softly, turning back to lift Tony’s hand so he can press it to his lips, tears wetting the dry skin.

“I—I’m sorry Tony,” he whispers, voice raw and shaking. “God I’m sorry for everything,” he chokes out, turning Tony’s hand so he can press it to his cheek, keening softly as he cries, gut clenching painfully as he works to keep his sobs quiet. 

“Please don’t die,” he whispers, turning his face to press a kiss to Tony’s palm, “I need you too much.”

Tony remains still, silent; asleep. 

Steve releases Tony’s hand and sets it back down by his hip before he lays the housing unit on the table next to the bed, the cool blue glow joining the purple illuminating Tony’s sleeping form. 

He rises and stares down at Tony for a long time before shaking his head and leaning down to press a kiss to his fevered brow. He lingers for a moment, inhaling the scent of his skin greedily before he pulls away. 

When he turns to go he pauses at the shadowy figure in the doorway, heart in his throat. 

“You never told him how you felt.”

He shakes his head and steps closer, staring down at Natasha, shoulders drooping in exhausted resignation. 

“And you won’t now.”

It’s not a question but he nods anyway. 

She stares at him with sad eyes and smirks ruefully, tears glistening in her eyes. 

“You can’t change what you did, but you can try to apologize, to regain his trust,” she tells him softly. “It won’t be an easy road.”

He nods and gives her something that’s supposed to be a smile and clasps her arm gently, “They never are,” he agrees before he slips away and leaves her to the shadows—the place she’s always been most comfortable. 

Natasha watches his broad form melt into the shadows and feels her heart break just a little more. This family, the one they had built as a team, was gone. Shattered and broken beyond repair. 

Curling in on herself, she watches Tony from her spot by the door, cheeks shining in the eerie light with the evidence of her grief. 

There’s no saving the world if they can’t even save themselves. 

* * *

They kill Thanos but it means nothing—the stones are gone and Tony refuses to help further, and so, the world staggers on, broken and bruised and emptier by half.

Steve stares out the window of his apartment at the quiet remains of the city he had grown to love, heart in his throat. 

It’s been six months since Tony left the city behind for his cabin on the lake—Steve hasn’t been, knows he isn’t welcome, but Natasha visits occasionally and reports back that he’s doing fine. 

Just like the rest of them, he’s _ fine. _

Steve shakes his head and turns away from the shadows of the city and heads to the dining room where the paper and pen he’d left behind is still waiting. 

He stares down at it for a long time before lifting the pen and begins writing. 

* * *

When the letter is left on the mat in front of his door he stares at it for a very long time—there’s no return address, just his name scrawled on the front and his gut churns at the familiar sight of the handwriting. 

He’s tempted to burn it without ever looking at it; the anger and hurt that Steve had carved into him with his indifference and stubborn will flaring like guttering embers given air. 

It moves from the front porch to the dining room table to the trash and then back again, the envelope stained with grease and coffee grounds as it sits and sits and sits. 

And then another comes. 

He’s half tempted to put on the suit and fly to the city to remind Steve _ forcefully _of why he doesn’t want to see him or talk to him—he actually gets the suit on and flies halfway there before the thought of actually seeing Steve makes his stomach wrench and his pulse skyrocket. 

He crashes outside the cabin, nanites rolling back as he gasps for air, left arm numb, vision swimming. He can hear FRIDAY calling his name but his tongue is too heavy and he can’t breathe, can’t move, can only lay in the dirt as it starts to rain and pray that he’ll drown. 

Eventually the world returns like feeling to a pinned limb—slowly and then all at once, burning and aching and tingling. 

He rolls over and retches, empties his stomach till it hurts and then slowly crawls to his feet, ungainly as the suit retracts into the housing unit. He’s soaked to the bone and cold, shivering as he stumbles inside and lands near the fireplace, teeth chattering from adrenaline and cold as he struggles to light the fire.

It takes three attempts before the kindling lights and he strips down to his skin, pulls a fluffy blanket around himself and stares into the flames as he warms slowly. He shuffles to his feet and pours a few fingers of whiskey and pauses—it’s been years since he’s had a drink and he can almost hear the disapproving look Pepper would have given him were she here. 

It’s the thought of her and everything that could have been that makes the decision for him; he swallows the whiskey in one go and then pours another, pauses and grabs the bottle before he sinks back down in front of the fire and proceeds to drink till he’s hazy and sleepy. 

* * *

He’s never been a great cook, but necessity dictates he learns a few new additions to his limited repertoire and when he manages to cook a perfect spinach and sausage omelette one quiet morning he stares at it for a beat and then stumbles back, ears ringing and stomach rising. 

He barely makes it to the sink, clinging to it as he heaves, the ghost of Pepper finding him once again. 

He throws it in the trash and has whiskey for breakfast instead. 

* * *

It occurs to him as he’s watching old footage of Peter patrol that he never really mentored the kid like he should have—always too busy, too distant, leaving the task to Happy when it should have been him. 

Peter laughs and pets a cat, chatting happily with a man behind a deli counter, hands animated as he tells a story and then tilts his head, falling silent before giving the older man a rushed farewell as he swings off to stop a carjacking.

He sips scotch today, smooth and soft and warm in his belly. 

He plays a voicemail from the kid and cries silently as Peter rambles happily about a lady who bought him a churro and how he has an idea for making his webs stronger and yet more flexible and would Tony like to work on it together maybe? 

The scotch is bitter coming back up, but he just soothes it with more, eyes bleary as he falls asleep watching Peter whoop and holler, happy and alive. 

* * *

He chops wood, sweat building on his skin and when he pauses for a drink (water, not whiskey this time), he wipes his face on his flannel shirt and is reminded of the day he and Steve had chopped wood together at Clint’s house.

FRIDAY has kept tabs on the archer and Tony is disturbed to see how far the other man has fallen from who he was now that his family is gone. 

He understands what Clint is doing, admires it a little—hell, he’s the man who hunted down every last member of the Ten Rings and killed them, who would he be to judge the other man for what he’s doing now.

Tony’s never really had a problem with killing if it was necessary—he doesn’t see their faces, the men he’s killed. 

He sees Peter 

Pepper

T’Challa

3.5 billion others that will remain nameless and faceless

Too many faces, too many people he’s lost, too many he’s failed. 

God, Howard would sneer at his weakness and failures, he can hear his voice as if he’s right here; _ You were supposed to save the world, not let it turn to ashes **boy**. _

Tony Stark—Merchant of Death indeed. 

* * *

Tony takes another sip of whiskey and stares at the pages on his lap, the cursive smooth and elegant and familiar. He’s read it three times already and memorized it, Steve’s voice in his head each time.

_Tony,  
_

_ I didn’t like you when we first met, though that’s not news to you; I thought you were nothing more than flash in the pan, a pretty rich boy indulging a whim. I told you I knew men who had none of your armor that were worth ten times you, and I didn’t even know you. I drew erroneous conclusions based on a SHIELD file and what other people told me and what I had seen of you in video clips, but I didn’t really know _ ** _you_ ** _ . _

_ I’m surprised you ever gave me the chance to know you after the things I said. But when I saw you fly that nuke into the sky, knowing it was a one way trip, I knew then how wrong I was. You didn’t just lie down on the wire, you threw yourself headlong into the fray, knowing it would mean your death, because it was the right thing to do. _

_ You’ve been on that wire for years Tony, protecting humanity, saving lives, doing good. You’re a better man than I ever gave you credit for, a better man than me because you were always a friend when I needed you. _

_ You are stronger and braver than anyone I’ve ever known, and it kills me that I treated you and our friendship with such reckless disregard. I found out about your parents just after the fall of SHIELD and Nat told me I should talk with you, ask you for help finding Bucky, but I was scared. _

_ Scared you would hate him, scared you would see him the way everyone else did; as a murderer who deserved a bullet to the head. A kind way out, someone told me once, but I don’t think that’s kindness, it feels more like cruelty to me… _

_ I was scared and bullheaded and wrong Tony. I was _ ** _so _ ** _ wrong. You deserved so much better than what I did, and I can’t tell you how much I regret it everyday. I hurt you, my best friend, and I don’t know if I can ever make that right. _

_ I understand if you never want to see me again after all the ways I’ve let you down, I’ll understand. I’ll go away Tony, I’ll give you whatever you want, because you’re everything to me, and I owe you that. _

_ Steve _

He folds the letter carefully and tucks it into his pocket, stares out the window at the stars, and proceeds to get blind drunk.

* * *

Three more letters show up in the space of a month and Tony is...exhausted. Each one is handwritten and so filled with yearning and sorrow they feel like weights on his chest, pinning down his lungs, keeping him from taking a full breath without it hurting. 

He finds an old box and shoves the letters in it when they come, ignoring them so he can breathe a bit easier. 

It’s nearly Christmas now; trees and ground coated in snow, fire crackling in the hearth, but the house remains void of decorations, quiet and achingly empty. 

This was supposed to be the place he and Pepper came to when they needed a break from the city and SI—the place they’d raise their children so they could have grass under their toes when they took their first steps. 

It was supposed to be a place of peace, but all it holds now is ghosts and memories. 

He’s out chopping more wood for something to do when a sleek black Mercedes pulls up and idles for a moment before the engine goes quiet and the door opens and Natasha steps out. 

They stare at each other for a long moment before he nods and swings the axe, cleaving the log in two. He sees her approach from his periphery and then she’s grabbing the spare axe from the tool shed and splitting logs alongside him. 

It’s soothing—the axe whooshing through the air and then the sharp crack of the log splitting. 

Over and over again—_ whoosh, crack _

When the sky is too dark for them to see by they stack the wood and he heads inside, pausing for only a moment to glance back and see if she’s following him. 

She is. 

He strips his jacket off and kicks his boots into the mat by the door and waves a hand at her, “C’mon, there’s stew and bread,” he murmurs, heading to the kitchen where there’s a Dutch oven full of beef stew waiting for them on the stove.

They eat in silence, staring at the flames crackling, spoons scraping the sides of the bowls until they’re empty and then it’s even quieter. 

Natasha toys with the end of her braid, staring at the flames as twilight falls, the sky outside a bruised purple color as the clouds collect and Tony sighs softly; the storm that FRIDAY had been tracking would be here tonight. 

He contemplates a drink—scotch—but he’s too tired to get up and pour it. 

The fire is very nearly burned down when he wakes from a light doze and finds Natasha in the recliner, a book on her chest, seemingly asleep. He rises slowly, feeling every one of his forty seven years in the way his back and knees ache. 

With the arc reactor out of his chest he breathes easier and his heart has fewer problems beating normally. He’s had the ribs that were shortened to make room for the reactor replaced with nanites—400% stronger than titanium or steel and able to form a thick protective layer to prevent the pericardial sac from being pierced during battle. 

He rubs his chest absently, a habit ingrained over years and adds another log to the fire to keep the room warm. He has a guest bedroom but Natasha seems fast asleep so instead of waking her he takes the book from her chest and lays a blanket over her still form. 

He stands in the shadows and watches the way the light plays on her sharp face, the flames burnishing her skin a golden bronze color. Her brow furrows and her full lips purse before she makes a soft distressed sound that makes something in his chest hurt. 

He shuffles away on stockinged feet, exhausted to the bone and breathtakingly lonely. 

The snow hisses against the windows as he lays in his too big bed, cold and alone. 

* * *

He wakes to the scent of coffee and bacon and stumbles down to find Natasha in his boots, sweat on her brow and melting snow by the door. 

She lifts a brow and holds out a mug to him, waiting till he takes it with only a _ minor _ tremor in his hand to nod and turn to fill hers up. 

“I shoveled the stairs out and cleared the porch,” she tells him quietly and then hands him a plate filled with bacon, eggs, toast and a pile of fresh fruit. 

He leans on the counter across from her and eats, sips his coffee, unsure of what he’s supposed to say. 

He settles on “Thanks,” and earns himself a wry little smile and a top off of his coffee. 

When he’s done they go out together to shovel the driveway, occasionally stopping for more coffee, and as they walk back to the house, weary and damp and chilled, snow splats against his back, surprising him into whirling to find Natasha smirking, hands lifted to show they’re empty. 

Huffing, he turns away and gets about three steps before more snow splats against his shoulder and when he turns back Natasha grins and throws a snowball into his face. 

It’s childish and amazingly, it forces a genuine laugh from him. He cocks a brow at her and blinks through the melting snow on his lashes, “You’re gonna pay for that,” he tells her, already stepping back so he can run to take cover behind a large pine tree. 

She laughs and swipes up a handful of snow to lob at him before she’s darting away and into the shadows of the forest. 

They throw snowballs at each other till they’re thoroughly soaked and sweating, a truce declared after Tony calls forth an older suit to hunt her down and dump a load of snow on her big enough to bury her halfway to her throat. 

She slings an arm around his waist and he throws one over her shoulders, their hips bumping as they walk back, soft smiles on their lips and snow melting in their hair. 

They change into dry clothes and eat more stew in front of the fire, content without conversation. He ends up reclining back against her as they watch a movie, her hand over his heart, his covering hers while she furrows her fingers through his hair over and over again.

It reminds him painfully of his mother and tears spring to his eyes, throat thick as a retired criminal investigator tries to put a cold case murder to bed on the screen. Natasha must feel the change in his body language because she makes a soft soothing sound and presses her lips to his hair gently. 

It’s all too much—the laughter and levity, the aching sorrow he feels when he thinks of his mother, the pleasure at having Natasha here with him...it’s all too much emotion for his frayed and worn body to process. 

He cries then, turns and presses his face into the couch so Natasha can’t see him, shaking as she pets his hair, crooning softly in Russian. He’s not sure how long it goes on for, just that his face is hot and flushed when he pulls it out of the fabric of the couch. 

Natasha wipes away the lingering tears and smiles sadly at him, eyes glistening with her own unshed tears as she pulls him close again, tucking his head under her chin. 

It’s easy; to sink into this, this freely given comfort and love. It’s like a balm on his tragedy scorched lungs, like he can breathe for the first time in years. 

He surrenders to it and isn’t surprised when Natasha clings just as tightly to him. 

* * *

She stays. 

They play board games and poker and drink and cook and watch movies and it...it feels like it used to in a way. 

When they lived in Avengers Tower and had a family that was fucked up and broken but still _ good._

She doesn’t ask him about Steve or try to convince him to come back to the city, but late one night when neither of them can sleep he shows her the tracking system he’s got watching Clint and she goes very very still, face pale as the moon as her pulse flutters in her throat.

They can play monopoly and have snowball fights all they want—but neither of them can escape the truth; they’re broken, likely beyond repair, and no amount of time or money or forced levity will change that. 

They’re just broken little dolls glued back together with too many pieces missing to ever be whole again. 

* * *

They’re running low on supplies and normally he’d just send a suit drone to get them, but Natasha asks to go, says she wants to check in with the people (and by people he assumes she means Steve) still in the city. 

He stands on the porch and watches her go till the glow of the taillights on the snow has faded to nothingness and he’s left alone once more. 

The wind howls through the trees and he shivers, watches the encroaching shadows reach for him with creeping tendrils of darkness and then steps back into the house, chilled to the bone. 

* * *

It’s three days before Natasha is back, this time with a Jeep that’s been loaded with food, paper supplies, books, more vodka than he thinks anyone could safely consume and _ Rhodey_.

He watches wide eyed as his best friend steps from the vehicle and then laughs at something Natasha says, a light to his eyes that Tony hasn’t seen there since they were just out of MIT and he was dating that red head. 

Seems like maybe his old buddy still has a preference for fiery haired women who can kick his ass. 

The way Natasha smiles back makes him pang with bitter aching jealousy for a moment—thinking of how Pepper would smile at him makes his stomach lurch.

He steps off the porch as Rhodey approaches and grins, reaches out to cup the back of his neck, blinking rapidly against tears as they stare at each other before Rhodey pulls him into a rib crushing hug that feels a little bit like coming home. 

They cling to each other as snow drifts in the air, tears frozen on both of their cheeks. 

“Alright boys, leave the love fest till later and come help me with this,” Natasha calls before snowballs splat into both he and Rhodey’s heads. 

He can’t even be mad at her—she’s brought his Rhodey. 

They make trips to and from the Jeep till the house is well stocked and their boots are by the door, dripping melting snow onto the hardwood.

Natasha makes them hot cocoa with salted caramel Crown Royal and marshmallows as he and Rhodey catch up; the news of just how badly the world is broken is unsurprising but painful just the same.

Nothing has turned out the way it was supposed to, and the weight of that hangs heavy on all their shoulders. 

But for tonight they push aside the darkness and put on Die Hard—it’s Christmas Eve after all. 

When it’s nearing dawn Natasha leaves them to go to bed, pressing kisses to Tony’s brow and Rhodey’s lips, the gentle sway of her hips drawing both their gazes for very different reasons.

“So,” he murmurs wryly, “when did _ that _ happen?”

When he looks over at Rhodey he’s amazed to see a dark stain of blush on his cheeks, a hesitancy to speak that James has _ never _ had in the past. 

It must be serious then. 

Rhodey stares down into his mug and shakes his head, “Just happened. She refused to leave the compound; searching for Clint and helping keep the peace in New York took its toll.” 

Rhodey looks up at him and somehow, he knows what’s coming next. 

“Steve checks in on her every week, has dinner and they go help where they can around the world, but it’s,” Rhodey pauses and shakes his head ruefully, “it’s not the same Tones.”

He knows. 

Nothing is the same anymore.

* * *

They sit together drinking vodka while the clock ticks slowly toward midnight and a new year. There’s a half hearted attempt at celebrating in the city and they watch the hosts smile and laugh, eyes empty and voices hollow as they try to pretend nothing is different. 

He’s not sure who thought this was a good idea—probably some greedy executives who wanted to put on a show for the world like it hasn’t already ended, like nothing is different anymore. 

When the clock strikes midnight Rhodey and Nat share a quick kiss and a lingering smile before Nat leans over and kisses him too, and Tony can’t help but laugh when Rhodey plants one on his cheek and knocks their shoulders together with a grin. 

“Happy New Years Tones,” he murmurs, letting Nat pull him off the couch and up the stairs with a pleased little grin over his shoulder before they disappear. 

Tony turns off the tv and stares at the fire, fingers tapping against the side of his glass. There’s something like anticipation balling up his guts and he shakes his head, swallowing down a last gulp of vodka before he stands and goes to his office.

His hand shakes when he opens the drawer to his desk and he finds he can’t move, stuck staring at the familiar box tucked deep at the bottom. 

He should have _burned_ the damn thing. 

With a heavy sigh he lifts it out of the drawer and carries it with him, tucked under one arm while he pours another drink before he slumps back onto the couch. 

Flipping the lid off, he stares down at the letters inside—nearly two dozen of them now. He’s not read all of them, just shoved them in the box when they arrive. The envelopes are smudged and yellowed, some wrinkled and torn from rough handling and he sighs heavily, lifting the first one out of the box. 

He’s read this one already, numerous times, but he’s possessed by an urge to read it again, to read all of them. Maybe it’s the new year making him nostalgic—_ Pepper, I've been called many things. Nostalgic is **not** one of them— _but he’s seized with the urge to read them. 

He flips open the envelope and pulls out the letter, sipping his whiskey as he reads the familiar words. 

The night slowly slips toward dawn as he reads, his glass never empty and his chest fills with regret and anger and loneliness with each word he reads. 

He reaches the last letter as dawn begins to break; headache throbbing low in his skull and an unpleasant coating on his tongue that tastes like regret and stale whiskey. 

The scent of old paper fills his nose as he begins to read, the familiar scrawl of Steve’s writing beginning to blur in his hazy vision. 

  
Tony,

_ I’m not sure why I keep writing, guess I’m hoping that you’ll actually read these and not just set them on fire. I wouldn’t blame you if you did, hell I’d probably tell you that you should if it wasn’t me sending them. _

_ I mistreated you Tony—I took your trust and I shattered it, trampled it underfoot and did it with barely a second thought. _

_ I could say I did it for Bucky, but it was really for me. I was selfish—I finally had some piece of my past back and I wasn’t going to let it slip away, even when I saw how it hurt you. _

_ You made me your family Tony, and I threw it back in your face. I can’t begin to tell you how much I regret that, how much I’ve regretted it since the moment it happened. _

_ When I got Bucky back I didn’t realize that it would cost me both my best friends. He’s dead now, ash in the wind and you’re gone, and I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know…. _

_ I’m sorry Tony _

_ Steve _

* * *

Steve holds a special counseling session on new years for those who need it most and not for the first time, the room is packed. People cry and scream and he holds it together for all of them, nudging and guiding them out of the darkness and towards the light. 

It’s been seven and a half months since the snap and every face in here looks as haunted as it had the day humanity had realized everything they had lost. His face feels contorted into a rictus of a smile as he shakes hands, murmuring soft words of comfort as people leave. 

He stacks chairs slowly, body working on autopilot while his head swims. There’s a shuffling noise at the door and he turns, body already falling into loose limbed readiness, combat ready even when there’s no need anymore—_ pretending you could live without a war— _when he sees who’s there. 

He feels something crack apart inside him and he wavers, hand falling heavily to clutch at the wall while May Parker stares him down with a clenched jaw and an icy glaze to her eyes. 

“Ma’am,” he manages, breathless and raw. 

Her gaze narrows and she storms over, rage contained in her tiny frame threatening to spill out and devour him. 

“It’s _your_ fault he’s dead,” she hisses, wrath flickering in her gaze like a flame. “If you had just signed the damned Accords he never would have gotten caught up with you all. He would be—”

She cuts herself off, throat working, a sheen of tears in her eyes and his own burn, throat thick as he struggles to breath normally.

_ In for four, out for four….breathe Steve, _ ** _breathe_ **

Bucky’s voice whispers in his head the words he’d used when Steve was little and fighting for each breath during an asthma attack and he struggles even harder to suck in air normally, heart pounding in the cage of his ribs. 

“I’m so sorry Ma’am,” he whispers, voice gutted and weak. 

The slap happens so fast he doesn’t even realize it’s happened till his cheek tingles and he’s looking to the side from the force of it turning his head. 

When he looks back at May she’s crying silently, rage and grief pouring out, too large to be contained by her willowy frame. 

“Don’t you _dare_ apologize,” she hisses, eyes gleaming with tears, “I don’t want anything from you except my baby boy,” she says, voice hitching as she struggles to breathe normally. “So either you figure out a way to undo this or I’ll make sure you’re reminded every day of what you’ve done, because I’ll _never _forget,” she threatens, chin trembling and eyes blazing with rage. 

He opens his mouth, but there aren’t any words. He nods and she stares at him for a moment before making a sound of disgust and turning away. He holds himself together till he’s sure the building is empty and then lets the ocean of panic and grief and self loathing swallow him whole.

He slams a fist into the wall and feels the cement shatter under his knuckles. Maybe if the pain inside of him is given physical form it’ll be easier to carry, easier to hold. 

Hits it again. 

And again

And again

Hits it until his hands are bloody and raw and broken and he’s on his knees sobbing, broken and alone. 

The clock ticks to midnight and he’s alone with the ghosts of his failures, haunted and empty. He feels ash on his hands, the remnants of those he’s lost, but when he looks, they’re coated in blood, not ash. 

The worst part is there’s no one else to blame. 

May was right—he’d told Tony they’d lose together and he’d been lying the whole time, already fracturing their family with his deceptions. 

The darkness consumes him and he greets it with a tired sigh, slumping into the floor to press his cheek to the cool tiling. 

His lashes flutter and he breathes, weak and ragged. 

* * *

Rhodey and Natasha leave the next day, with promises to be back soon and when the Jeep has disappeared around the bend in the road, he feels achingly cold and alone. 

He bundles up and throws another log on the fire, debates sitting on the couch and watching a movie, but there’s something driving him to his office, so he follows the impulse and begins tinkering, improving upon the designs of his clean energy turbines. 

The world might be in shitty disarray, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to leave it like that. Stark Industries has been faltering along for months without Pepper and he knows he can’t keep ignoring it.

He places calls to the board members and they agree to hold a vote to appoint him as CEO in two days’ time. He sends his schematics to R&D and lets the passion for creating carry him away into a 36 hour binge. 

FRIDAY pokes and prods till he takes a shower and eats before napping. He dresses with care, hands shaking as he dons the suit that makes him Tony Stark to the world—a charade that he’s no longer as comfortable wearing as he once was. 

He dons the suit and lifts into the air, the familiar exhilaration of flying tempered by his creeping anxiety making his stomach lurch and his hands sweat. 

The meeting goes smoothly; he’s appointed CEO in a unanimous vote and then spends the next ten hours going between R&D and accounting. He figures that with the economy in the shitter and the dollar taking a nosedive, it’s time for them to try something new. 

They plan a massive rollout of clean energy for the tri-state area and he makes the schematics public so struggling nations around the world can become energy independent. 

They partner with Queen Ramonda in Wakanda and he finally gets to work with the brilliant young Princess Shuri. 

After their first video call he excuses himself from the lab where he’s been working with his R&D team and walks calmly to the bathroom, locks the door behind him and proceeds to have a panic attack. 

When his heart finally calms and the nausea has passed he splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror, studies the dark circles under his eyes and the lines around his lips that have deepened with time. 

His hair is graying at the temples(all over really) and he thinks for a moment _ I look like Howard _, and then he turns away because, even if he looks like the old man, he’s not the man his father was—never will be—for better or worse, he’s not sure. 

He straightens his clothes and wipes his face off and heads back out because now more than ever, the world needs Tony Stark. 

* * *

Seeing Tony on the tv again is surreal in the extreme.

There is the man who was at one time, his best friend.

The man who he worked with to save the world time and again.

The man he….

He swallows hard against the emotion and shoves it aside. He watches Tony greedily, studying his face and eyes as he announces his plan for clean energy, clean water, security, _ peace. _

_ Peace in our time _ he recalls Tony saying, and he wonders if it’s really peace or just that humanity’s will has been broken. 

Tony looks tired; Steve can see the faint hint of purple under his eyes that someone has done a remarkable job of hiding with clever makeup. He smiles faintly—he recalls too easily how Tony would brush off the makeup artists when it was an Avengers press conference but sit patiently to be done up for SI related work.

Tony had caught him watching once and smirked. “Gotta look pretty for the adoring fans or our stock prices drop fifteen points over the speculation I might be getting old and tired.”

That was silly, he thought, because the world had seen photos of Tony as Iron Man, bruised and bloody after missions—why should Tony Stark have to hide his imperfections? 

When he’d voiced that thought Tony had laughed bitterly and gained a faraway look in his eyes, “Because Cap, one is a hero and the other is the Merchant of Death pretending to be a good guy. It’s all a charade—no one really wants the truth. They just want the pretty mask that comes with the lie.”

It hadn’t made much sense to him then, and looking at Tony now, grinning under the glare of the spotlights, eyes carefully hidden by tinted sunglasses, it starts to sink in. 

Iron Man and Tony Stark are masks, and he got the privilege of seeing beneath those to the man underneath—the soft interior wrapped in a shell of armor and wit. 

Someone calls out a question about the Avengers—_ Where are the Avengers? The world needs them now more than ever! _—and Tony goes carefully still, smile frozen and Steve’s heart leaps, gut wrenching as he waits, breathless, for the answer.

There’s a moment he thinks Tony won’t answer and then he’s smiling and the suit is crawling over his body till just his face is exposed and Tony grins, a rictus of a real smile, and salutes the cameras. 

“The Avengers will be back, you can count on that,” Tony replies with a wink, and then he’s soaring off into the sky and the camera follows, watching as the suit burns a trail across the sky till it’s gone. 

Steve shuts his eyes as the newscasters chatter excitedly about the possible return of Iron Man and the Avengers. 

The image of the suit burns bright behind his lids; gold and red and glowing with promise. 

* * *

The mirror shatters with a fantastic crash when Tony throws the housing unit for the suit into it, chest heaving as he glares at the fractured image of his own face. 

It’s apropos; he feels shattered into so many pieces he doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s sick of seeing his own face, wishes he could replace it, be someone else, someone who didn’t fail the entire goddamn universe, someone no one knew. 

He scoops a shard out of the sink and hisses when the jagged edge slices open his palm, hot currents of blood flowing out as he grips it harder, baring his teeth in defiance against the pain. 

He squeezes till the pain is white hot, shivering through his nerves, his brain screaming at him _ stop stop stop _ but he holds on and watches as the crimson drops drip into the sink _ drip drip drip. _

He’s a fraud—a man in an iron mask, hiding his true self from the world for fear he’ll be loathed for his flaws. 

_ Weak weak weak _

It feels hard to breathe now, too tight and too fast, vision blurring as he sways, catches himself with a hand on the broken mirror, shattered glass cutting deep. 

He falls back and slumps to the floor, hands bloodied where they hang between his knees, dripping blood to the floor as he gasps for air like a fish drowning on dry land.

As his vision swims and cold black rushes up for him he thinks for a moment, _ I wish Steve were here. _

* * *

His assistant gives him a look the next day that makes his gut churn with how familiar it is to the one Pepper would wear when he fucked up. Karen Page could be Pepper’s little sister they’re so similar; iron in their spine and ice in their veins and a smile that can cut deeper than a knife. 

If he wasn’t so fucked up he’d probably fall for her, but as it is, it’s too fucked up, even for him. 

She says nothing but carefully unwinds the bandages and shakes her head when she sees the mess of his hands, strands of her golden hair falling into her face as she works.

“You’re oddly good at this for a legal secretary turned journalist turned assistant,” he quips, watching as her hands still for a moment before resuming their steady work. 

“My friend is a fighter,” she murmurs and he grins wryly—he knows exactly who Miss Page’s _ friends _ are, and fighter isn’t _ quite _ the word he’d use—vigilante comes to mind first. 

“Mmmm,” he hums softly, “and how is Mr. Castle these days?” he asks pointedly, noting the way her hands tremor for just a moment before she continues cleaning the cuts. He winces at the burn of the rubbing alcohol, the stench of it making his stomach turn. 

“Frank Castle is dead,” she says flatly and he can immediately tell that if he doesn’t back off he’s going to hurt her more than he probably already has. He watches her work quickly and efficiently to coat his multiple lacerations in antibiotic cream before wrapping new, clean bandages around them. 

When she pulls away to throw away the used and dirtied wrappings he watches her, studies the way she moves, sees the lines of tension around her eyes, how her lips are pressed together and he feels like an ass—he’d thought he was past tormenting his assistants after Pepper had kicked his ass to kingdom come when the fourth one had quit. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, meeting her gaze when she looks up, surprise on her face and tears in her clear blue eyes. “Shit,” he mutters and rises to his feet, reaches for her without even meaning to, unsure of what he should do. 

If it was Pepper he would hug her and apologize for fucking up. 

If it was Rhodey he’d make a crack about how being a fuck up should be expected and they’d laugh it off.

Karen is...different. 

She nods and brushes back a few strands of her hair, eyes rimmed in red as she sniffles and smiles tremulously. “It’s just,” she hesitates for a moment and then shakes her head, looks away as she bites her lip and he can see her throat working as she tries not to cry for real. 

“Things were finally good,” she whispers, “He was...he was free of his demons, his need for justice.” She shakes her head and a half sobbing laugh rips out of her wetly, “We were supposed to have an _ after _,” she whispers, shoulders quaking as she falls apart right in front of him. 

He doesn’t hesitate any longer and steps forward, opening his arms so she can turn into him and cry, hands clinging to the back of his shirt as her shoulders shake. He holds her as she mourns, inhaling the scent of her Miss Dior perfume—the same that Pepper had worn—gut churning with a sickening mixture of latent desire and grief. 

Maybe that’s why when she pulls back and looks into his eyes with a sad, desperate look he kisses her. 

He knows even as it’s happening it’s a bad idea, that he’s making a mistake, but then she’s kissing him back, desperate and clutching, until they pull apart for breath and he backs away, hands raised, gut curling with bitter regret. 

“I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t—”

They speak over each other and there’s a long moment of silence where they stare at each other and then she laughs, tears in her eyes and hand over her mouth to stifle the hysterical laughter that follows her outburst. 

“God, we’re absolute fucking messes, aren’t we?” she gasps, grinning at him through her tears and he realizes that his cheeks are wet too. He laughs bitterly and nods, leans against his desk and smiles softly when she joins him and rests her head on his shoulder. 

Winding an arm around her waist he pulls her closer and closes his eyes, feels the familiar weight of a woman in his arms again and lets it comfort him for a moment. 

“Do you miss the sounds of the city?” she asks softly, “It’s too quiet now.”

He nods and they stare out the window at the sprawl of the city below, too quiet and empty. 

There’s a lot he misses. 

* * *

He gets a letter while he’s in the city and the utter gall of it chokes him; he crushes the paper in his fist and seethes, wishing Rogers was here so he could punch him in his stupid, perfect teeth. 

The crumpled ball of paper lies on the floor for as long as it takes him to knock back three whiskeys in a row—two minutes—and then he’s flattening it out on his thigh and reading it by the faint glow of lights from the city below. 

Tony,

_ I saw you on the news and I...I wanted to let you know that even if you hate me, I’ll always be here to help you, to help the Avengers. _

_ I’ll always be your friend Tony, your family. _

_ Even if you hate Steve Rogers, Captain America is ready to answer the call. _

_ Steve _

Tony is so angry he can’t even see straight...or maybe that’s the half a bottle of whiskey he’s consumed, he’s not really sure at this point. All he knows is that he needs a piece of paper because he’s got some shit to say to that _ asshole _ Steve Rogers aka _ always your friend Tony, always your family _ —except friends don’t lie to each other, _ do they Steve? _

He seethes as he stumbles drunkenly down three floors to his office, cursing Steve Rogers and Captain America and Project Rebirth and Howard Stark’s overblown ego before he finally locates a small pad of paper. 

Squinting in the low light, he scrawls words across the page, teeth bared in a snarl, rage pouring out onto the page. When he’s done he shoves it into an envelope and writes Steve’s name on it and leaves it on his desk for Karen to find in the morning. 

When he’s back in the penthouse he slumps onto his bed in a drunken stupor—blackness rising swiftly to meet him. 

His last conscious thought is _ fuck you Rogers. _

* * *

Steve has often wondered if people get what they deserve, and as he stares down at the crumpled paper in his hand bearing Tony’s vicious, cutting words, he wonders if this is what he deserves after all he’s done. 

He doesn’t need to look to know what the paper says—he’s memorized it after just one glance. 

_ Fuck you Rogers _

_ Fuck you for thinking you could ever fix this. _

_ Fuck you and the noble, chivalrous horse you rode in on you pedantic motherfucker. _

_ Fuck Captain America _

_ You’re not my friend or my family and you never were. _

If he could turn back the clock he’d make sure he never lied to Tony, he’d be honest about his parents and Bucky’s hand in it, he’d tell him he’s been in love with Tony since the beginning, that he was the reason Steve had ever felt like he was at home in this new, strange future. 

Tony was the reason he breathed, that he fought, that he lived. 

The words echo in his head until he feels like he’s going crazy and he crumples the paper in his fist, the pressure inside him building till he howls with grief, body taut where he’s collapsed against the wall, sobbing breathlessly as tears burn down his cheeks. 

He feels trapped here in his apartment, Stark Tower—once Avengers Tower—shining brightly in the distance, mocking him. 

Maybe this is the end—maybe he should just give up, but something in him rebels at that, at giving up on _ Tony _. 

He can’t. 

Not without trying one last thing. 

He tugs his jacket on and shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks through the still busy streets over to the tower, lit like a beacon, guiding him to the place he once called home. 

He thinks for a moment that he’ll be locked out of the tower with no way in, but when he tries his keycard, it works. The elevator rises silently to the penthouse, and for a moment he misses JARVIS, his cool wit and sass, and then he remembers that Vision is gone too and his heart lurches in his chest. 

The doors slide open and he’s greeted by a furious Tony Stark, dark eyes blazing as he steps out of the elevator.

Tony shakes his head and points, “Get the fuck back in there and don’t ever let me catch you here again,” he snarls, face contorted into an ugly mask of rage and hate. 

It’s a punch to the gut to see the man who had once been his best friend glaring at him like he’d gladly rip Steve apart with his bare hands if he could. 

Steve lifts his hands in a gesture of peace, “Tony, _please_ I just want the chance to talk,” he pleads. 

At this Tony scoffs and takes a step forward, bitter amusement twisting his beautiful face into a mask. “You want to _talk_? You had the opportunity to do that for _ years _ and yet you kept your mouth shut and lied to me, so _no_, Rogers, I don’t think I need to hear _ anything _from you.”

That’s...that’s fair, Steve thinks. 

“Please, Tony, I just—”

“You just _ what? _” 

Steve takes a step forward and Tony flinches back, a look of horror passing over his face when he realizes what he’s done and Steve, he can’t, is...is Tony…

“Are you _afraid_ of me?” Steve whispers, voice cracking around the question. 

Tony’s eyes blaze and he takes a large, forceful step forward, “Fuck you Rogers. I’m not scared of you,” he hisses, dinner jabbing into Steve’s face. “I _ pity _ you,” he snarls. “You thought you were the hero, but you didn’t save the day, did you? You’re a liar and a coward and a _ villain; _ you didn’t save _ shit._” 

Steve stands there, hands numb at his sides and lets the words cut into him, sharper than any blade, and feels himself slowly bleeding out with every hateful word Tony snarls at him. 

“Fuck you and your sad, _desperate_ letters,” Tony scoffs, mouth twisting bitterly, “I can’t believe I _ever_ trusted you,” he says, quieter now, “what a fool I was.”

“You weren’t a fool Tony, it was—”

“Shut _ up_,” Tony cuts him off, dark eyes hard. “I swear to _god_ you open your mouth and I wanna punch you right in the teeth,” he grinds out from between clenched teeth. 

Something pulses in Steve at that, just like it had when Tony had threatened him after the Accords had come out, something dark and desperate, something in him that aches for Tony’s hands on him, even if it means pain. 

“**_Do it_**.”

Everything goes still, as though the room itself is holding its breath to see what comes next, and Tony stares at him, wide eyed and confused. 

“_What_?”

Steve swallows and lowers his gaze, cheeks flushed as he whispers, “Do it.” When he looks back up, Tony is staring at him with some odd mix of pity and anger and hurt and he takes a step forward so he can see Tony raise his hand, the nanites racing out to cover his hand with the suit. 

He steps forward again till there’s barely an inch between the repulsor and his chest and stares down at Tony, his breath coming too fast as he waits for the other man to blast him straight through his sternum. 

He thinks wildly that maybe Tony will do it, will shatter apart his ribs and turn his heart to ash. 

He deserves it. 

“You fucking masochist,” Tony scoffs out, brow furrowed, “You want me to beat the shit out of you because you, what, you think it’ll _ fix _ things?” he demands, “it won’t fix _ shit _ Rogers.”

Tony laughs bitterly and shrugs, “You know, it might make _me_ feel better, to finally put you in your place,” he says, and he sounds so contemplative it sends a sick thrill through Steve.

“Do it,” he urges again, “put on the suit,” he murmurs, a mockery of what he’d said to Tony so many years ago on the helicarrier.

Tony must recall that because his half amused look fades away quickly and he shoves Steve back with a gauntleted hand to the sternum, eyes blazing. 

“Get the fuck out of here before I do it and destroy you Rogers.”

Steve balks and reaches without thinking, grabbing Tony’s bare hand, “Please Tony, I’m sorry.”

There’s a split second where he thinks, maybe he’s gotten through to Tony, but then Tony wrenches back and his left hand flies into Steve’s face and he stumbles back, pain throbbing in his cheek as Tony advances on him, face white with rage, lips pressed thin, nostrils flaring. 

“You fucking...you piece of _ shit_,” Tony rasps out hoarsely, “sending me your little letters thinking that will fix _ anything,” _he snarls, bare hand tangling in the front of Steve’s shirt to haul him close so he can punch him again, this time in the eye. 

“I’m sorry.”

The fist connects with his jaw and he stumbles, shirt ripping out of Tony’s hand as he falls to his knees, blood dripping from the cuts in his skin where the armor had torn into him. 

“**_Fuck you_**!”

Tony’s chest heaves as he punches Steve again, splitting his lip so he tastes copper and regret. Steve stares up at him through a rapidly bruising eye, blood dripping from his torn and swollen lip, and wonders if maybe this is his penance.   
  


Father O’Flannigan would be so disappointed in little Stevie Rogers if he saw him now. 

“I’m...sorry.”

Blood drips to the floor and Tony curses him, eyes wild and burning brightly with rage. He grabs Steve’s torn shirt and hauls him to his feet, pushing and shoving till his shoulders hit the elevator doors. 

“Fuck you Rogers, fuck you and your tears,” Tony snaps, “get out of my home and don’t you _ever_ come back,” he threatens darkly, finger pointing accusingly at Steve’s bruised and bloodied face. 

Tears?

He lifts a hand and wipes his cheek—it comes away wet with tears and blood and he hadn’t _known_, hadn’t felt it, he wasn’t trying to—

He looks up at Tony through blurry vision and tries to form words, something that will get through to Tony, but the words, they don’t come. 

The doors of the elevator slide open and he stumbles backward, shoulders knocking into the back wall as Tony stares him down, face stony, eyes blazing with rage and ugly loathing. 

“I’m sorry Tony,” he whispers, one hand lifting pleadingly, voice cracking and Tony, he just shakes his head and turns away as the doors start to slide closed. 

“You dug your grave Rogers, now you get to lie in it,” Tony tosses over his shoulder, and the last thing Steve sees before the doors shut is Tony, walking away from him. 

He’s not sure how he gets home. 

He doesn’t bother dressing the wounds on his face—they’re healing already and he _wants_ them, wants the throbbing pain to linger, so he has some mark on him from Tony, some proof that this happened and he’s earned the pain that echoes through his body with each breath. 

Curling into the corner of the shower, he lets the scalding water burn into him, the screaming pain of it as it washes over his face enough to leave his knees weak and his breath shuddering. 

He traces the cut on his lip and groans when it aches sharply, the taste of fresh copper on his tongue a moment later. 

The sudden twitch of his cock takes him entirely by surprise, and it takes him a moment to realize—he’s been half hard since the first punch Tony had thrown. 

It’s a sickening realization but it doesn’t stop him from reaching down, hand shaking, so he can wrap it around his cock and stroke, using his other hand to press into the bruise on his cheek from Tony’s fist.

Pleasure and pain collide in white hot lightning under his skin and he gasps wetly, hips jolting forward to chase the sensation.

It’s wrong, it’s so _ wrong, _to use Tony like this—to take what he’d done and use it for pleasure. Thumb pressing into his cheek, he groans and strokes his cock again, whimpering at the devastating sensation. 

He’s barely able to stay upright as he strokes, biting his lip so the flare of pain there lights up, heat pooling low in his belly even as copper coats his tongue. 

He’s wrong, fucked up, but he can’t stop. 

He sobs as he strokes faster, desperate, the lack of lube leaving his skin raw with only water to provide any kind of relief—but it’s no relief, too hot, scorching on his tender skin, but it’s, it’s good, it’s what he _ needs_, needs the pain, _ deserves _ it.

His toes curl into the tile as he presses his fingers into his cheek and licks over his lip, thumb scraping over the head of his cock, heart racing in his chest as he lurches closer to coming. 

He tastes salt and realizes he’s crying, but he can’t stop, can’t breathe, can only drown in the dual sensations ripping into his body. He comes with a whining sob, body shaking uncontrollably as he squeezes his cock too tight and bites down harshly on his lip.

The water washes away the blood and cum and tears and he sobs, falling to the floor, legs too weak to hold him up anymore. The pleasure fades and he’s left only with pain, echoing hollowly inside him with every throb of his pulse. 

_ You’re a villain _

_ Fuck you Rogers _

He stays there till the water is cold and his head throbs from crying. He towels off and stands naked in his room, staring at the shield propped against the wall as the headlights of the traffic outside slide along the faded wallpaper of his room.

There’s nothing left for him to do, except the only thing he knows how—the only thing he was ever good at. 

His hands shake as he changes, pulling fabric on over his limbs till he’s covered in the stealth suit, and his hand lingers for a moment over the edge of the shield, but he leaves it and pulls a black beanie low over his brow, the beard he’d grown while on the run disguising him well enough. 

He’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish as he walks out into the night—but sirens wail in the distance and already he can smell fear—coppery and wet like blood—and then he’s striding into the shadows of the city to hunt down an outlet for the anger and pain raging inside him. 

* * *

There’s blood in his teeth as he gazes up through a swollen eye at the man standing over him with Steve’s blood on his knuckles. He tries to take a deep breath but he can feel something shifting and grinding inside him and when he inhales it sounds wet, broken. 

Pain is an old friendship, distant after the serum, but renewed now recently. He’s been doing this for months now and pain has regained meaning in his life; it colors his face in shades of eggplant, puce and copper, winds around his bones like a restless lover and leaves him breathless like a passionate embrace. 

He chokes on the blood in his throat and spits it out, chest spasming as he tries to breathe, an unwilling groan ripped from behind his teeth. 

It’s what he deserves though; this pain. 

For how he’s failed the Avengers, Tony...the world. 

It’s what he deserves. 

_ You dug your grave, now lie in it. _

The man grins and Steve has a moment of clarity as his fist rushes toward his face and he thinks _ I’m going to die _ and _god_, it feels like relief before blackness overwhelms him and his limp body crashes to the filthy concrete floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artwork in the moodboard was provided by umikochannart and I highly recommend you commission her for your own lovely art!!
> 
> I saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
😭 = I got you right in the feels  
🔥 = this was so hot!  
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


	2. Year Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve recovers slowly, meets someone new, and Tony has some feels.

* * *

He doesn’t want to go. 

But Natasha had asked—no, _ pleaded _ —with him to come, and there’s something about the way she had looked—scared and heartbroken and so _ small _ that he couldn’t bring himself to say no. 

Couldn’t say yes either, but that’s a problem for later. 

He stares out the penthouse window at the rain pouring down on the city, washing away the gritty film on the windows so everything looks a little brighter, clearer. It’s an illusion of course—nothing is better or brighter these days. 

It’s all ashes and echoing streets and failure haunting him everywhere he looks. 

“Miss Page calling Boss.”

Tony sighs and has FRIDAY answer, already weary. 

“Mr. Stark, Presbyterian Hospital has called for you,” she says softly, sounding wary and tired. 

His eyes slide shut and he nods, “Tell them…” he falters, because what the hell is he _ supposed _ to tell them? That he doesn’t give a single fuck about Steve Rogers? _ That _ would end up on the headlines of tomorrow’s papers and today’s blogs faster than you could say _ Tony Stark Sex Tape. _

“Sir?”

“Yea...tell them to bill me. I’ll…” he swallows hard and forces back the urge to throw up, “I’ll be by later.”

There’s a long moment of silence and then a soft sigh, “I can go for you,” Karen offers and, if there’s a God, Tony thanks her silently for sending him Karen Page because he’s not really sure what he’d do without her these days. 

Still, he shakes his head and clears his throat, “No, I’ll do it,” he replies stoically, choking on the anger he feels toward Steve for putting him in this situation. 

Karen agrees with a soft hum and then hangs up, leaving him in the oppressive silence once more. 

* * *

Horror creeps into his veins alongside the anger and he stares down at the battered body that’s too big for the hospital bed, and yet, somehow, looks tiny and young and weak. He’s never seen Steve look so...broken. 

There’s a blur of color beside him and then Natasha is there, her hand gentle on his wrist, thin fingers squeezing tightly before relaxing. 

“What…” he chokes on the question and shakes his head, looking away from the bruised and battered figure. 

“He’s been going out and fighting crime for months. There’s militias and gangs trying to take power and he’s out there without the shield, fighting them, every night.”

Natasha’s words are cold and matter of fact but her grip on his wrist betrays her—it’s too tight and icy and he’d wriggle out of it if he didn’t know how deeply she needs something to hold onto right now. 

That’s one of them in that bed, and even if he hates Steve right now, it still pains some part of him to see him like this. It’s fundamentally wrong—Captain America is unstoppable, unbreakable, a towering icon of American strength. But here he is; face beaten nearly unrecognizable, body littered with healing gunshot and knife wounds, bones broken, lung damage and more bruises than unmarked skin. 

The serum has some seriously heavy lifting to do, Tony thinks. 

It’s been months since he’s seen the man on the bed in person—a year since his fateful return to earth and looking at Steve now he can see the weight of it has been heavy.

The younger man is sporting a beard much like the one he’d seen when Ross had sent him pictures of the rogues on the run and it makes him look…older, wearier and more like an everyday man than the towering figure he’s grown accustomed to living with and fighting alongside. 

He finds himself turning his wrist to capture Natasha’s hand with his, his grip too tight, but he needs some of her strength right now. 

Anger and disbelief and hurt course through him because _ of course _Steve was going out without the shield to fight the bad guys. The tattered remains of the stealth suit speak volumes for the broken and silent man on the bed.

Steve Rogers doesn’t feel worthy to carry the mantle of Captain America anymore and Tony…Tony doesn’t know how to reconcile what’s in his heart and his head. 

He wants to hate him for being so goddamn dumb, so stubborn and self loathing, but he can’t really cast stones in this glass house he’s built for them, can he? He’s trapped them both with unachieveable expectations and he’s not sure there’s any way out without sending the whole charade crashing to the ground. 

But maybe that would be better than trying to prop up the walls of this ruined and twisted thing. Maybe it just needs to burn to the ground so they can start anew.

He clears his throat and squeezes Natasha’s hand, gives her a barely existent smile and lowers his gaze nervously, “Can I uh, can I have some time alone?” he asks. 

He can feel her gaze on him, studying and assessing as only she can, and then she nods and leans up a little to kiss his cheek, lips soft and warm against the chill of the hospital room. 

When the door clicks shut behind her he stands and stares at Steve for a long time, until his knees ache and he sits in the chair beside his bed with a heavy sigh. 

Wiping a hand over his face, he shakes his head and smirks, face twisting with regret and anger. His eyes fall shut and he leans his head back, exhaustion catching up with him quicker than he’d like. 

It’s a bitch getting older, he thinks. 

Everything hurts. 

* * *

When Steve wakes for the first time he hears soft voices talking distantly, but he’s fuzzy from the painkillers they have him dosed with and the words sound as though he’s hearing them from underwater; muffled and distant.

When he wakes again his head is clearer and his eyes open slowly, a throbbing deep in his skull telling him the man with the crowbar got a few good hits in before he’d managed to fight his way free and out into the street. 

The room is empty—no cards, no flowers, no people and for a moment he’s overwhelmed with memory of the last time he’d been in the hospital. He’d just found out Bucky was alive and had nearly died trying to get him back. Sam had sat by his bed, protecting him, smiling when he’d woken up, a soft crooning song on in the background.

There’s none of that now. 

The utter loneliness sinks into his chest and leaves him gasping; shaking and crying, he presses his hands to his face and sobs, stripped bare and raw for the world to see. 

He cries himself into exhaustion and sleeps again. 

When his eyes peel open again he’s surprised to see Natasha by his bedside, a Stark tablet in her lap, brow furrowed and lip bitten while she taps her fingers against the screen, intent on whatever is there. 

She must feel his gaze because she looks up a moment later and her eyes widen a hair before she’s smiling softly and setting the tablet aside in favor of leaning forward to take his hand. 

Her smile is shaky when he squeezes her hand, overwhelmed with how grateful he is to see her. He blinks back tears and clears his throat as she edges forward in her chair, taking his hand to press against her cheek. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” she asks, voice low and sharp and he winces at the pain in her eyes, looks away from it so he doesn’t have to see yet another person he’s broken. 

He shakes his head, swallowing hard because he doesn’t have words anymore; he wouldn’t know what to say even if he could try to form words. 

Natasha sighs and shakes her head in his periphery, sits back a little, though she keeps ahold of his hand. She toys with something before holding it out to him and he stares at the plain white envelope with his name on it. 

That’s Tony’s handwriting.

His heart lurches and the monitors beep with its increase as his mouth goes dry. His hand shakes when he reaches for it and when his fingers slide over the smooth paper it feels like a knife sinking into the space between his ribs. 

His fingers tremble as he pulls the letter out, stomach writhing. 

_Steve,   
_

_ You goddamn _ _ idiot _ _ . You...you self sacrificing MORON. Why, _ ** _why_ ** _ would you go out in a damaged suit? Why would you leave the shield behind?! If you’re going to be a suicidal idiot, at least have the courtesy to take the shield with you to make it a little harder on the bad guys, huh? _

_ Jesus… _

_ You look like shit by the way. _

_ Next time…call Natasha, she’ll watch your back. _

_ I’d hate to have to go to your funeral. _

_ Christ Rogers, I’m writing this on actual paper you technophobe. I’ll never understand your attachment to relics like this; wasteful, easily torn or destroyed by fire. _

_ Maybe that’s just the futurist in me; always searching for the next thing, always trying to see what’s coming. _

_ Maybe that’s why I never saw your betrayal coming...it came from the past and I’ve always had my eyes so firmly on what lies ahead. _

_ Do you regret it? I think you do, I think...I don’t know how to forgive you, but… _

_ Jesus… _

_ Don’t die Rogers, the world still needs you. _

_ I can almost hear the hope in your voice “What about you Tony? Do you still need me?” looking so _ ** _goddamn_ ** _ earnest and wholesome… _

_ I don’t know Steve...give it time. _

_ Just...give **me** time. _

_ TS _

* * *

The first day he’s fully awake and not bogged down by morphine the doctor comes to see him, accompanied by a handsome older man in athletic clothing, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 

The doctor looks distinctly uncomfortable as he introduces the man—Carlos Jimenez—Steve’s new physical therapist. After the doctor leaves Carlos has him sitting upright for the first time in days and working on loosening out his limbs—something he’s told is necessary because he was in a coma for ten days and had spinal damage that on any other person would have made him a paraplegic. 

When Steve thinks to ask why the doctor had looked so uncomfortable with Carlos’s presence the older man smiles wryly and guides his arm through a simple rotation, hands gentle but firm. 

“I’m a contractor,” he explains, as though that’s a reason for the doctor to be annoyed. 

Steve frowns and bites back a sound at the agony that echoes through his chest; his ribs are still healing and his spine is deeply bruised and sensitive and his liver is tender and _ well _, he’s a mess, frankly. “So?” he bites back, grimacing as pain burns through his muscles and leaves him shaking and breathless.

Carlos laughs lightly, “Sorry, guess I should explain, Stark Industries has a health and wellness division—we work with hospitals, clinics and underserved communities around the world to make sure people receive healthcare of all kinds.”

Steve winces as his shoulder is rotated, a sharp shard of pain slicing through his nerves and he inhales sharply, head dizzy and light for a moment. Carlos’s answer sinks in slowly and when he realizes what the older man has said, he’s not sure if he’s elated or ill at the thought that Tony is providing for him. 

“I didn’t ask for Ton—I don’t need…” he trails off, not really sure what to say, and Carlos makes a soft sound and switches to guiding Steve’s arm up and through small circular rotations that make his gut flop and sweat break out on his brow. 

“If it’s any consolation all your personal and medical information is protected through HIPAA,” Carlos murmurs, and well, _ that _, Steve has to laugh at because if there’s anyone in the world who wouldn’t respect the sanctity of federal law, it’s Tony Stark. 

He shakes his head and sits up a little straighter; now isn’t the time to think about Tony, now is the time to work on his recovery. 

* * *

“C’mon Steve, again,” Carlos encourages, voice firm but warm as Steve stares down at the tractor tire on the floor. It’s been ten days since he was hospitalized and he’s still recovering—a testament to his injuries and the weakness they had left him with. He’s had to have IV nutrients and saline solutions twice a day in addition to almost ten thousand calories of food to keep up with his body’s needs while it heals and strengthens itself. 

He remembers not so long ago when he’d been able to fight a battle for hours and then debrief with the team before he ever felt weary. Now it takes little more than a physical therapy session with Carlos to exhaust him so deeply he feels like he’s small and weak again—drained by the smallest of things, easily out of breath and pained with each inhale. 

Gritting his teeth he squats and gets his hands under the tire, muscles screaming as he heaves it up and then flips it. He does this again and again till he’s gone around the training room twice and his muscles are shaking so hard he’s on the verge of collapsing. When Carlos does call an end to the exercise he barely makes it to the chair beside the man, legs crumpling under him as his chest heaves. 

His chin drops low, eyes shutting as he breathes raggedly, dispirited with how weak and tired he still is after all these days. He should be stronger—this lingering weakness makes him fear he’ll never be the man he once was. A small voice in his head whispers that isn’t such a bad thing—the man he was lied to Tony, broke the only family he had in this time and wasn’t able to stop Thanos...perhaps a change from the man he had been is for the best. 

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, warm and reassuring and he leans into it without really meaning to, needing the comfort more than he can really say. 

“Steve, you’re doing remarkably well for a man who had six broken ribs, a fractured tibia, fibia, shattered collarbone, spinal damage and brain damage.” Carlos laughs softly and it’s a warm sound that Steve’s grown accustomed to in the last ten days, familiar and fond and it makes something in him light up in a way he hasn’t in years. “A lesser man would have died,” Carlos murmurs, “I’m proud of you for working so hard.”

Steve glows a little on the inside at that—he’s made Carlos proud, that’s good. He wants to do well, to do this right. The hand on his shoulder squeezes and he makes a low grating sound in his throat as his body protests the pressure. “C’mon, let's get you into the bath,” Carlos encourages and Steve grimaces, wipes a hand over his face—this is his least favorite part of the whole recovery process. 

Carlos is there, a firm hand on his arm to guide him to his feet and when Steve finally opens his eyes, the older man is there, by his side, smiling warmly, dark eyes sparkling with something that looks like affection. Carlos lifts a brow, “Ready?” he asks, and Steve nods, smiles back tightly as his body protests the forward movement he pushes it into, his face a rictus of pain with every step they take. 

When he’s stripped down to his briefs, Carlos gives him a hand getting into the tub and then pulls his chair up beside it and proceeds to distract Steve with a rousing discussion on who would win in a game between the Dodgers of yore and the modern day Yankees. 

Some part of Steve that isn’t invested in the conversation is deeply grateful to Carlos for this; it had taken only one time in which Steve had submerged himself in the tub and proceeded to panic so badly Carlos had needed to pull him out and hold him until he had calmed for the older man to figure out that leaving Steve alone in the ice was the worst idea possible. 

Some days are better than others; some days even though Carlos tries to distract him, Steve has to grit his teeth and force himself to stay in the water, limbs shaking with a sickening mixture of terrified adrenaline and exhaustion. He’s just reaching his limit when Carlos stands and helps him out, as though he knew, as though he could tell that Steve was getting to the place where the cold was sucking him into a void from which he’s never certain he can escape when it comes for him.

His hands shake as he towels off and when he takes an unsteady step toward his clothing and almost collapses, Carlos is there in a heartbeat to hold him up, dark eyes concerned. He guides Steve into a nearby chair and crouches in front of him, brow furrowed as he holds Steve’s hand firmly between his. “Steve, can you focus on me?” he asks, voice sounding far away and...Steve blinks a few times before Carlos’s face focuses, his mind fuzzy. 

When he meets Carlos’s gaze the older man smiles softly, lines feathering around his eyes as his full lips curl up. “There you are big guy,” he says softly, fondly. There’s pressure on his hand and he looks down curiously, realizes Carlos must have squeezed it and when he looks back up the older man just nods and smiles. “We pushed too hard today, huh?” he murmurs, concern in his gaze once more. 

Steve wants to say that’s not true, but his body is screaming otherwise—demanding food and sleep and _ warmth _ . He shudders at the idea of being warm and Carlos frowns, lifts a hand to his cheek and _ oh, _ oh, he’s _ so _ warm...Steve leans into the touch, lids fluttering, lips parting on a breathy exhale. 

“Warm,” he sighs, pressing his cheek harder into Carlos’s palm, seeking more of his body heat. 

“Okay Steve, I hear you,” Carlos murmurs, “let’s get you on your feet, hmm? We’ll go get warm.” 

_ Warm _...that sounds nice. 

Carlos guides him to his feet, a broad shoulder under his arm and a firm, muscular arm around his waist to keep him up and moving. His gaze is loose and hooded, but he recognizes the shape of the sauna and stumbles a little faster towards it, sighing in relief when Carlos guides him in and onto one of the benches. 

His lids fall heavily and he leans back against the cedar, inhaling the scent of the oils in the steam; vetiver and mahogany and amber and it’s so _ familiar _, so warm and inviting, teasing at his senses as he slips into a warm haze. 

He hears the soft sound of Carlos’s bare feet on the cedar and opens his eyes, rolls his head lazily onto his shoulder and watches as the older man ladles more water over the hot rocks, clouds of steam billowing and saturating the air with the scent of….

_ Tony _ his brain suddenly realizes, it smells like Tony. 

Something sticks in his throat at that, and he wants to beg Carlos to get him out of here, but his traitorous body is too exhausted to fight the soothing heat and he sinks deeper into that fuzzy space—the scent of Tony warm and familiar and something settles in his belly—a glowing little ember that makes his skin itch and feel two sizes too small.

Carlos turns and smiles at him, chest gleaming with sweat and Steve swallows thickly, limbs tingling with a need he hasn’t paid attention to in so long it takes him a dizzying moment to realize it’s desire. The older man gives him a friendly wink as he sits beside Steve and leans in a little, strong fingers wrapping around Steve’s wrist shocking him, the pressure of them against his skin igniting the embers that had been glowing in his belly. 

He fights the urge to shake Carlos off and holds still as the other man takes his pulse, gaze steady on Steve. When he’s done, he doesn’t release Steve’s wrist, just strokes his thumb along the delicate skin of his inner wrist and smiles at him. “How are you feeling Steve?” he asks, studying Steve with an intensity that makes him want to shiver. 

He swallows hard, suddenly aware of every point of contact between them; Carlos’s knee pressed against his thigh, fingers around his wrist, breath on his skin. He manages a weak smile, head still muzzy and loose, “Good, I-I’m good,” he stutters, tongue feeling almost too heavy to speak. 

“Good, stay here, I’m going to get you some water,” Carlos murmurs before squeezing Steve’s wrist and standing with a bright grin. Steve can’t help but watch as the older man walks away, his steps rolling and lithe. It shames him, but he can’t help but admire the way his calves flex and his thighs shine with steam. 

It’s too easy for him to imagine running his hands over the muscular planes of Carlos’s back, of holding onto his narrow hips and filling his hands with his lush ass and _ shit _, he ducks his head and inhales shakily, he’s half hard and there’s no way Carlos won’t notice. 

He tries to rise to his feet but sways, head light from exhaustion and dehydration. He collapses back and closes his eyes in resignation, trying to will his erection away. He hears steps approaching once more and waits till Carlos has taken his seat next to him to force his eyes open and take the water bottle he’s being handed. 

He accepts it with a tight smile and drains it in three healthy swallows, gasping as his head rushes, dark spots flashing in his vision. A hand takes the bottle and replaces it, but he can’t seem to find the strength to lift it, limbs too heavy, head too light. 

“Okay Steve, open your mouth,” Carlos orders softly and god help him, he does. His lips part and his eyes flutter half open to watch as Carlos lifts the bottle to his mouth, squeezing more water into his mouth. He swallows dutifully, embarrassed when he follows the nozzle eagerly, his thirst awakened like a dying man in the desert and water slips over his chin and down his throat, a cool streak against his heated skin. 

Some part of his brain notices the way Carlos’s gaze follows the path the water took and when he lifts his gaze, it’s heated and heavy and Steve can’t help the rasping whine that comes from the back of his throat. Carlos ducks his head and curses softly, but when he looks up, Steve’s heart flutters at the hunger in his gaze. 

A calloused hand lands on his cheek, tilting his face so he’s forced to peer into Carlos’s eyes, so dark and heavy with wanting it makes his pulse thrum low in his gut, hot and heavy and desperate. Carlos’s lips twist and he shakes his head, looks pained as he murmurs to Steve, “We can’t, you know why, right?” he asks, thumb caressing the lower line of Steve’s full bottom lip. 

The sensation is intoxicating; he sways a little, lips parting and Carlos’s thumb presses between them, slides over his tongue and he goes weightless, lips closing as he sucks on it, pleasure building under his skin as Carlos hisses and curses, gaze lidded and hungry. 

The thumb in his mouth presses down on his tongue and slides deeper and he groans, aches for something more to fill his mouth. Carlos is breathing heavily, staring avidly before a shudder runs over his skin and he pulls back, thumb popping from between Steve’s wet lips with a lewd sound that has both men shivering with need. 

Carlos leans back and swallows hard, shaking his head, “Steve, we _ can’t _,” he murmurs firmly, “I’m your physical therapist, it’s improper.” 

Steve wants to whine and chase the feel of skin on skin, but he reins himself in, nods weakly and Carlos smiles softly, hand reaching out to cup his cheek once more. “You’re so good Steve, so sweet for me,” he murmurs and Steve blushes, insides glowing at the praise and Carlos makes a quiet sound, “yea, you’re a sweet one,” he says with a soft smile, thumb tracing over Steve’s cheekbone. 

He melts into the touch, eyes falling shut as his skin tingles; it’s been so long since anyone touched him like this. He had avoided intimate relationships, too preoccupied, too in love with…

His chest aches under the pressure of even thinking about _ him _, here now, with another man’s hands on him, and he feels short of breath and pained as Carlos murmurs sweet words and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. 

Pulling away is a harder battle than any he’s fought against Hydra, but he does it. He gives Carlos a weak smile and nods, “You’re right,” he murmurs, words feeling heavy in his mouth, hard to get out. “We should wait.”

Carlos nods and gives him a fond smile, “We’ll wait,” he agrees. 

* * *

Waiting is...frustrating. 

Every touch makes his skin itch with need and every smile and joke and conversation they share has him falling further for this man who Tony has paid to help him recover and the fact of it sticks in his head—_ Tony paid him, Tony paid him, Tony paid him. _

It feels like…it’s _ wrong _ somehow, dirty and illicit and something he shouldn’t let go any further. 

But then…

Then Carlos tells him they only have five sessions left and the thought of finally getting to feel something other than pain and grief...it’s too alluring to let go. 

They carefully shake hands after his last session and Carlos hands him a slip of paper with a number on it and smiles wryly and says it’s _ for if you wanna get coffee _ —which Steve has learned after a few fumbling dates means _ if you want to hook up _.

He stares at the slip of paper, need and self loathing running together till he can’t think straight, till he’s six miles away from his apartment and can’t even remember tying on his sneakers for this run, but he keeps going, running and running and running as his thoughts chase him. 

His clothing is soaked in sweat, sticking to his skin when he finally stumbles up the stairs of his brownstone, bone weary and sore—he shouldn’t have gone so far and so fast so soon, but the burn of lactic acid and the ache of his body feels so good he can’t help but be glad he did. 

He’s under the spray of the shower, water dripping off his face when he finally relaxes, limbs softening as he scrubs himself down. He’s surprised to find he’s half hard; he stares at his cock for a moment, wondering where it’s found the energy to rise and then carefully, gently, wraps his hand around it. 

He’s avoided touching himself for weeks; at first it hadn’t mattered, with blood loss and the pain of recovery he hadn’t the strength or the peace of mind for anything like arousal. But then...then he’d had that moment in the sauna with Carlos and everything had come roaring back. 

Slick fingers draw down the length of his cock and he shudders, a full body quiver that turns into an arch of his hips as he presses his thumb into the sensitive skin just under the head. He gasps and does it again, lids growing heavy as he strokes, twists his wrist at the head and drags his nail over the slit. 

Bracing a hand against the cool tile of the shower he pants as his strokes grow faster, heat pooling in his stomach and tension rising in his belly, the need under his skin roaring like flames as he strokes. 

It feels...feels so good it leaves him shaking and whining softly, wishing it was someone else’s hand on him...someone..._ dark eyes flash at him, bright and intelligent and warm and he flushes, ducks his head as Tony smiles and makes a joke, his laughter filling the room. Christ he wants...wants Tony, wants his hands on his skin, his lips on his throat, his words in his ears. _

Gasping, he strokes harder, shame filled as he recalls the times they had showered together after a mission, how he had snuck glances..._ Tony’s body is lean but powerful, olive skin gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights as water beads on his skin, rivulets on his back, thighs and legs drawing his gaze. He turns and Steve rips his gaze away, cheeks heating as Tony calls out to him, asking something about the mission and he hears himself respond, but all he can think about is the flash of thigh and dark curls he’d glimpsed and… _

He comes, shaking and whining, cum splattering against the wall as he strokes long past the point of pleasure, the sharp edge of it making him hiss between his teeth, head thrown back as it sharpens and then dulls into heat, his cock rising without ever having really softened. 

Staring down at his drooling cock he shudders in revulsion—he shouldn’t be using Tony like this—as nothing more than a masturbatory fantasy. It’s...inappropriate. He lets go of his cock and flips the water till it’s freezing and forces himself to stand under it till his cock wilts. He’s shivery with cold and aborted need when he pulls on his flannel pants and henley and slides into bed, shaky and lonely and hollow. 

His tremors slowly fade as he warms up, but the emptiness in his chest doesn’t and he pats around for a few moments before finding his phone under his pillow. He composes a quick text and sends it without second guessing, holding his phone close to watch as the message goes from _ delivered _ to _ read 10:23pm. _

A few moments pass before the ellipses appear, pulsing as a response is crafted and he waits, breathless to see what the other man will say. 

_ Hey Steve! I’d love to see you—I’m so glad you texted! _

Breath whooshing out in relief, Steve smiles shakily at his screen and types back quickly.

_ Awesome, how about Java the Hut at 4 tomorrow? _

_ I’ll see you then! :) _

Steve grins at the screen, excitement building low in his belly at the thought of seeing Carlos outside of therapy. 

_ See you then _ :) 

* * *

Their coffee date turns into dinner which turns into lunch dates and art shows and dancing and before Steve knows it it’s been almost three months that he and Carlos have been dating.

It’s...really good. 

Steve glances up from his sketchbook to watch the kids on the swings, a faint smile curling his lips. There had been a time when he’d thought he’d have this life with Peggy—kids, a simple house, a simple life. 

But the longer he stays here in the present, the more he realizes that the man who wanted those things has changed, grown. 

His smile widens at the sight of Carlos playing with his granddaughter, their smiles so similar it’s impossible to deny the familial connection. He’d been hesitant at first to meet Carlos’s family—he didn’t want them to think badly of Carlos for dating a former patient. 

When he’d expressed that sentiment to Carlos the older man had grinned and looped an arm around his shoulders to draw him in for a kiss and whispered against his skin—_ they’ll love you no matter how we met. _

And well, he had been right. 

Ten minutes after their arrival he was chasing a small herd of children in the backyard, giving airplane rides and telling (censored) stories of his time with the Howling Commandos. 

The children had dubbed themselves the Comandos Aulladores and promptly gone on a mission to find the Red Skull while Steve rejoined the older members of the family. 

Even now recalling the fond look on Carlos’s face was enough to make his cheeks heat. 

“STEVE!” 

He looks up at the screech of his name and hastens to set aside his drawing supplies and throw his arms open for the little girl barreling his way, tears on her cheeks. 

Her tiny body feels even smaller in the vast expanse of his arms and he’s never more aware of the raw power of his body than he is now when he has something so soft and delicate in his arms. 

“Hey, what’s the matter sweetheart?” he asks softly, glancing up to find Carlos jogging over with a frown on his handsome face. 

Cristina sniffles and presses her face to his chest, his shirt growing wet as she cries. “S-she said I-I couldn’t play with t-them cus I’m too little!” Her tears rise in volume and Steve sighs softly, heart crushed under the weight of someone so tiny enduring her first run in with the crueler side of the world. 

He pulls her into his lap and she winds her arms around his neck, sniffling and hiccoughing as he rubs her back. Carlos joins them on the bench and lays a hand on Cristina’s back, his smile to Steve warm and reassuring. 

“Cristina?” Steve murmurs, waiting for her soft sound of acknowledgement before continuing, “remember the stories I told you about when I was little?”

Her tears seem to slow and she nods a moment later, pulls back to look up at him, eyes rimmed with red and cheeks stained by tears. Smiling softly, Steve wipes them dry, his hand large against her tiny cheek. 

“You were always gettin’ in trouble,” she whispers hoarsely and Steve laughs, nodding, pats her back and kisses her hair. 

“You’re right, I was. But you know what else happened?” he asks, smiling when she shakes her head uncertainly. “I had my best pal Bucky to back me up.”

Her eyes widen—he’s discovered that she loves Bucky the most of all the Commandos, and he’s not sure if it’s because he speaks so fondly of his lost friend or if it’s because she’d been born without most of her left arm and the idea of being a hero anyway appeals to her, but for whatever reason, she adores a man she’s never met. 

Smiling softly, he takes her Stark Industries prosthetic hand and squeezes gently, “This time you’ve got me for backup,” he whispers and grins when she smiles in delight—her missing front teeth grinning at him. 

He stands and does a little bow, “After you,” he jokes, grinning when she takes off, face set in determination as she heads for the older girl that had refused to let her play with them. 

He stands silent guardian while Cristina shows the older girl she can keep up—crossing the monkey bars with ease and climbing the rope ladder before the older girl steps forward and asks Cristina to show her how to do the monkey bars without falling.

By the time he takes his seat on the bench next to Carlos, the pack of children has grown, playing and running—on the hunt for Hydra—led by Cristina and her blazing smile. 

* * *

_ Tony, _

_ I’ve been trying to give you space, time. I...ha, it feels odd to tell you this, but you were always my best friend, the person I could trust with my secrets...even if I didn’t share the most important one. _

_ I’ve met someone. _

_ Actually, we’ve been together for about three months. _

_ I didn’t…. didn’t want to bother you. I wasn’t sure you’d care. _

_ I think you’d like him—he’s so kind Tony, so sweet to me and thoughtful. _

_ He… _

_ He reminds me of you a little. _

  
_ I hope you’re well. _

_ Steve _

* * *

_ He reminds me of you a little. _

Tony stares at the words, something thick and unpleasant sticking in his throat. _ What the fuck Rogers? _

Tossing aside the letter, he rubs a hand over his tired eyes and contemplates going back to the cabin for a few days. 

“FRI, call Karen Page.”

“Yes boss.”

The line rings a few times before she answers, sounding out of breath, “Morning boss.”

A smile softens his face, “Morning Page. Not interrupting anything am I?” he asks politely. If there was something he’d learned with Pepper it was paying better attention to the needs of others and acknowledging that their lives didn’t revolve around his. 

“Just out for a run,” she says, and her breathing slows, steadies. 

“Mmm, what’s my schedule look like for the rest of the weekend?” 

He could look, he knows that, but he likes that she keeps him on track and tames the crazy of his world to a more respectable level than when he tries to do it himself. 

“You’re supposed to have a meeting with the board tomorrow about the rollout of the new waste processing service, but we can make it a conference call if you’re not going to be available in person.”

“Let’s do that,” he agrees, “I want to take a few days and go to the cabin,” he tells her, toying with the edge of the letter, gaze fixed on the smooth artistic script. 

There’s a moment of silence in which he can hear her sharp mind working and then she exhales softly, the sound of traffic in the background nearly drowning it out, but not quite. “Of course. I’ll have the e-paperwork loaded to your drives so you can review and add any last minute comments.” 

He can hear her pace pick up again, breath hitching and he smiles faintly, affectionately amused by her persistence. “Thank you Karen,” he murmurs sincerely, gaze still on the letter. 

“Of course Tony, whatever you need,” she assures him softly and he closes his eyes, tries not to think about how he needs, aches for, someone to be by his side, to fight his battles with him, to be…

_ Christ _ he has to stop this. 

What he and Steve were isn’t something they’ll ever have again. 

“Boss?”

Clearing his throat he nods and smiles faintly, “That’ll be all Miss Page,” he murmurs. 

She makes a soft sound and the line shuts off—he’s left in silence, staring at Steve’s words on the page, the pleading of a man who had been kicked while he was down and was too stupid to not ask for more. 

Scoffing, he shoves it aside and goes to the bar, pours himself a scotch and then grabs the bottle before heading down to the workshop. He can lose himself in the modifications he’s been tinkering with on the suit, shut the part of his brain that’s sickeningly obsessed with Steve Rogers off and just focus on this till he’s too drunk or exhausted to keep going. 

Eventually it’s both; he falls asleep at the work table, the half empty bottle of scotch clutched in his hand. 

He’s woken up by a firm hand on his shoulder and a voice calling his name and when he manages to open his eyes he’s greeted by the face of his best friend, creased with worry. 

“Tones, you okay?” 

He makes a soft sound and tries to nod, head throbbing with that slight motion, stomach rebelling violently for a moment before he stills himself and takes shaky breaths, eyes falling shut in concentration. 

“Why don’t we get you to the shower?”

He’d be annoyed by the tone Rhodey is using if he hadn’t entirely earned it by drinking too much and staying awake for—he cracks a lid and scowls at the time—21 hours. 

By far not a record, but it’s still too long at his age. 

_ Christ _ there’s a thought he doesn’t want to explore—when did age become a thing he has to _ worry _ about? 

When Rhodey guides him out of his chair and into the elevator he groans, unable to hold back the sound. His head swims as the elevator rises, taking them higher till the doors slide open on the penthouse and he’s struck by the sight of it, bathed in shadow and weak moonlight.

This is where he’d found out Steve liked peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, that he prefers Star Trek to Star Wars, and that he thinks hip hop is the natural successor of jazz. 

Rhodey tugs him gently and he doesn’t look back as the door to his bedroom shuts behind him with a solid click. 

He’s muzzy and exhausted as Rhodey forces him into his bed, and when he looks up at his best friend, it occurs to him that without Rhodey he’d very likely be dead. 

His fingers are slippery with exhaustion, but he manages to get ahold of Rhodey’s hand, eyes half open as he squeezes, capturing James’s attention. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, “Thank you...f’r keeping me alive.”

It won’t be till later, when he’s sober and less exhausted that he recognizes the look Rhodey gives him as shocked and sorrowful. 

He sinks into his pillow, eyes drifting shut as he squeezes Rhodey’s hand before he rolls over and buries his face in his pillows.

He’ll deal with everything...tomorrow.

* * *

Warmth is suffused into Steve’s bones, flushing his skin and it leaves him breathless and panting as Carlos sucks another mark onto the thin skin of his collarbone, the almost pain of it making his cock throb and his blood rush harder under his skin.

A hand is fisted in his hair, tilting his chin back to expose his throat so Carlos can drag his teeth over the exposed tendons of his throat while he whines deep in his chest and rolls his hips desperately up into the older man’s. 

“Shhh,” Carlos hums, nails scraping over his scalp as he licks delicately over Steve’s rocketing pulse, a soft noise coming from his throat at the taste of salt and warm skin. 

Steve settles and sinks deeper into the warmth, lips parted around breathy moans that would embarrass him if he wasn’t so far gone. Carlos’s strong hands have stripped him of his shirt and pants so he’s left in just his briefs, tented and stained with the evidence of his arousal, a desperate need simmering low in his gut as Carlos touches him, slow, firm and sweet. 

Steve gasps and arches when Carlos licks over his nipple, dark eyes flashing up to grin at him before the older man pushes his hip down with a firm hand and laves his tongue over the sensitive skin again. 

The wet heat of his mouth is beautiful, Steve thinks—the way Carlos’s full lips look sucking it into his mouth makes him shudder with need. It’s good, it’s…Carlos sucks and bites till Steve is whimpering, hips writhing under the firm hand there to hold him still, cock throbbing desperately for more friction. 

“Shhh baby,” Carlos murmurs, moving his attention to the other side of Steve’s chest, “you’re doing so well, so good for me,” he whispers against Steve’s skin and that’s, that’s good, Steve _ wants _ to be good, to prove that he can listen and do what he’s asked. 

The weight of Carlos’s hand at his hip is laughably easy to break free from if he wants, but he doesn’t, he wants it there, pinning him in place, firm and heavy and bruising. It’s too light and he bucks his hips, groans when Carlos pushes down and his fingers dig into Steve’s skin. 

Heat pulses in his cock and he trembles as precum slicks up the head of his cock, slippery inside his briefs. He writhes, trying to get more, to get Carlos to dig his fingers in and leave him marked and bruised and _ god, _ he wants that, _ wants _ so badly he whines, arching into Carlos desperately.

“Hey, baby, woah,” Carlos whispers, pulling back to stare down at him in concern, “you’re all worked up, what’s going on?” 

Steve shakes his head and presses his face into the side of the couch; he can’t, he _ can’t _ tell Carlos, he’ll think Steve is, is _ wrong _ and dirty and, and that he doesn’t deserve to be Captain America because who in their right mind _ wants _ to be hurt, _ likes _ the pain, worse, _ gets off on it? _

“Steve, baby, c’mon, I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Did I hurt you?”

Steve gasps out a choked laugh and shakes his head, the words clenched behind his teeth. 

There’s a long moment of silence and then he feels fingers at his jaw, gentle and soothing. “Do you _ want _ me to hurt you?” Carlos asks and Steve gasps as the words rush through him. His cock throbs and he squirms, eyes shut tight, panting and hot, flushed with his desperation. 

“Steve, I need you to tell me if that’s what you want.” 

Steve shakes his head and pushes his face deeper into the couch cushions, panting as Carlos sighs. “Steve, look at me,” he orders, and the steel in his voice makes Steve shudder—it reminds him of...but no, he can’t, _ won’t _ think about...not _ here _ , not _ now _.

He takes a few shaky breaths and turns his head, sucking in the fresh air gratefully before he opens his eyes and finds Carlos smiling down at him. “Hey baby,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s cheek gently, so sweet it makes Steve feel even worse about this. 

“Can you tell me what you want?” Carlos asks, lifting a brow when Steve shakes his head again. “Be a good boy for me and tell me Steve,” he murmurs, that steel back in his voice and Steve whines, wanting to please him, to be good, but so scared to say it. 

He swallows hard, licking his lips and flushes when Carlos rubs his thumb over the swollen up bottom lip Steve’s been biting on. Carlos’s eyes are dark when he presses on Steve’s lower lip so his thumb edges just past Steve’s teeth. 

“Tell me,” he orders and Steve shudders at the command in his voice. 

He swallows and takes a shaky breath before closing his eyes and blurting it out. 

“I want you to hurt me.”

There’s a long moment of silence and then warm lips meet his and he falls eagerly into the kiss, clutching desperately at Carlos as the older man kisses him. He’s breathless and flushed when Carlos pulls back, “Good boy,” he whispers and Steve whines, throws his head back as the praise sinks into him like the warmth of the sun. 

Carlos presses another kiss to his lips and then pats his hip, “Stay there baby, I’ll be right back,” he assures Steve. He nods and opens his eyes to watch as Carlos walks back to his bedroom, sounds muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. 

A few minutes later he hears footsteps and opens his eyes to find Carlos standing over him. The older man holds out his hand, “C’mere baby,” he murmurs and guides Steve to his feet. He feels light and untethered, the only thing holding him down is Carlos’s hand at the nape of his neck. 

“I want you to kneel for me Steve, can you do that?”

Steve nods eagerly, he can, he can do that—he’ll show Carlos, he can be good. He falls to his knees in an easy show of grace, gazes up at the older man as he strokes Steve’s cheek, smiling warmly. 

“That’s my good boy,” Carlos murmurs, “now, Steve, if I ask something from you that you don’t want to do or if something isn’t good, I want you to say red, okay?” he asks, crouching down to look Steve directly in the eye. 

He nods, “Red for bad, stop,” he agrees, tongue clumsy in his mouth. 

Carlos nods, smiling encouragingly, “That’s right baby,” he murmurs, “and if you aren’t sure and need a break you say yellow, hmm?” 

Steve nods, “Yellow for slow down,” he murmurs.

“Good, now, green is for good,” Carlos explains, thumb stroking his jaw gently. “How are you feeling baby, what’s your color?”

“Green,” Steve answers instantly, so green, he’s so ready, shaking with anticipation and flushed with need. 

Carlos smiles and stands back up. When Steve goes to rise too, Carlos chuckles and lays a restraining hand on his shoulder and pushes him down, down to his knees and then further till his nose is on the floor by Carlos’s feet. 

“There you go baby, look at you, ass in the air like the needy little slut you are.” 

Steve gasps at that, heat shivering through him and Carlos laughs softly, “Yea, you’re ready, huh? All green?”

Steve nods, forehead pressed into the hardwood so he feels the grooves and smells the woodsy scent of the floor cleaner Carlos uses. 

“Good then, follow me,” Carlos murmurs and starts walking away and it takes Steve a moment to realize Carlos wants him to _ crawl. _ An embarrassing rush of heat fills him at the idea...crawling on the floor after Carlos is degrading a-and wrong and he wants to do it so _ badly _ he shakes with the need to move. 

“Steve, _ come, _” Carlos calls, like he’s calling for a dog, and Steve whines, head dropping low between his shoulders as he starts crawling after the other man.

His face heats with embarrassment and his cock twitches inside his briefs and he swallows hard against the whine that’s trying to escape. He feels it all, the scrape of his knees on the floor, the heat of embarrassment curling low in his belly making his cock harder, the weight of Carlos’s gaze on him. 

He stops at Carlos’s feet, by the edge of the bed and only rises up to his knees after he’s been instructed to do so. 

Carlos cups his cheek and smiles softly, “Color?”

“Green, so green,” he moans, leaning into Carlos’s hand, skin too tight and warm by half. 

Carlos pets his hair for a moment and then steps aside so Steve can see what’s on the bed, and when he does he flushes deeper. He recognizes the slim vibrator Carlos has used on him before, and the gold plug they’ve tried, but he doesn’t know what the other things are. 

“You’ve got a selection here baby. What do you want to try?”

He shivers and points to the silvery chain connected to what look like clips of some sort and Carlos makes a pleased sound, “Nipple clamps, hmm? These will look so pretty on those delicious tits of yours,” he muses and Steve makes a low noise of embarrassment—men don’t have...they _ aren’t _…

He huffs out a breath when Carlos tweaks one of his nipples, “That embarrass you baby? Me talking bout your pretty tits?” he asks, voice warm with good humor. 

Steve nods and keeps his chin ducked low so he doesn’t have to meet Carlos’s gaze. 

“Hmm well, let's give these a try then,” Carlos murmurs before he pinches both of Steve’s nipples between his fingers and twists. Steve’s chest jolts forward at the sharp pain that quickly fades into a throbbing heat, lips parting around a moan. 

“So sensitive here, hmm,” the older man muses, twisting them again before releasing them and dragging his thumbnails over the delicate skin so pleasure and pain shiver alongside each other. 

Steve pants and moans, back arched into his hands, gaze half lidded while Carlos toys with him, plucking and rolling his nipples till they’re throbbing and feel swollen and larger than normal.

When he chances a glance down though, they look the same, if redder than normal and peaked with arousal.

Carlos flicks at them once more and then nods, “You’re ready,” he decides, and Steve has half a moment to wonder what that means, so adrift in the haze that it’s not till the first clamp is closing cruelly on his flesh that he remembers, remembers that he asked for this. 

The clamp bites into his sensitive flesh and he cries out, sobbing a little at the sharp, shivery pain that swells till he thinks he’s going to have to say red, and then, just when he thinks he can’t do it, it subsides into a throbbing heat that has his cock jerking and spilling pre cum inside his briefs. 

“God, baby, look at you,” Carlos murmurs reverently, “You take it so good _ mi putita _, like you were made for this.”

Steve moans at that; he, he’s doing _ good _ , he’s making Carlos happy, that, that’s _ good _. 

He opens his eyes when a hand touches his hip and watches breathlessly as Carlos pulls his briefs down and guides him into taking them off. His cock slaps wetly against his stomach and he shivers in embarrassment at how wet he already is. 

He’s always been like that, so quick to get wet, so desperate for touch. 

Carlos crouches down again and grins at Steve before running his finger up the underside of his cock, sweeping up the slick pearl of pre cum and promptly sticking it into his mouth with a pleased sound. 

His cock jolts and pulses and Carlos chuckles, slipping his finger free with a wet pop. “Tastes good mi putita,” he murmurs, slicking up two fingers this time before offering them to Steve. 

There’s no hesitation as he opens his mouth and sucks the fingers clean—he tastes salty and bitter but it’s, it’s _ good _ , he likes it and he shivers with embarrassment—he shouldn’t like it, it’s, it’s... _ filthy _. 

Carlos presses on his tongue, sliding his fingers deeper and Steve moans, sucks harder on them, gaze hooded with pleasure as dark eyes study him. He pants when Carlos pulls his fingers free, lips slick with spit, the salty taste lingering on his tongue. 

He’s surprised when Carlos kisses him, but responds eagerly, chasing his tongue and moaning when the older man nips at his lip and kisses him till he’s breathless. The brilliant sharp burst of pain takes him by surprise then—the other clamp added when he’s distracted by Carlos’s mouth, and this time it’s more intense, heady and strong and he moans, sobbing on each breath as his hips jolt forward, cock dripping and aching for stimulation. 

“That’s it, look at those pretty tits all clamped up,” Carlos murmurs, rising back to his feet and turning to the bed. Steve sobs out a breath and tried to concentrate on his breathing, eyes blurry with unshed tears on his lashes. 

When he’s calmed and the pain has subsided to that low, constant throbbing, a hand at his cheek has him looking up to find Carlos watching him with a proud little smile. “You’re doing great Steve, what’s your color?”

“G-green,” he pants out, because he is, he’s so so green and he wants _ more _. 

“Good. Now, you have a choice, do you want to have the plug inside you while I spank you, or do you want the vibrator?”

Steve tries to think clearly but all he can focus on is that word—_ spank— _like he’s a naughty child that’s going to be punished for eating too much candy. He shivers at the idea and pants, words slipping from his grasp. 

A hand furrows into his hair and yanks his head up, a sharp tug of pain that dazzles him and clears the fog for the moment. “What do you want Steve?” Carlos asks firmly. 

He wants...he wants…

“The vibrator,” he finally gasps out, sighing when Carlos nods and praises him for choosing. The older man directs him onto the bed, hands and knees, and Steve flushes at how exposed he is, moans when the chain between the clamps sways and tugs on his throbbing nipples, the ache sinking deeper till the heat feels like it’s in his bones. 

He hears the click of the lube bottle opening and sucks in a breath when two fingers rub against his hole, body rippling as Carlos rubs circles there till his rim is softened and relaxing into the touch. He breeches him slowly, with one finger first, pumping it smoothly before it retreats and comes back with a second, slicker than before. 

Moaning and panting, he rocks back into it and gasps when the clamps tug, the pain of it hot and biting and so so good that he does it again, shuddering as he’s filled with Carlos’s fingers. The older man rubs the lube into him, coating him with it before sliding out and getting his fingers wet again so he can tug at Steve’s rim and soften it, the slick sounds of his fingers lewd and embarrassing.

He’s so..._ wet, _slick and slippery inside and it’s...god it’s embarrassing how he’s moaning for it, how he can’t seem to stop his hips from rocking back into Carlos’s touch. 

“That’s it mi putita, moan for me,” Carlos murmurs to him just before he pulls his fingers from inside Steve—and oh, he does. He whines at the loss and rocks back, moans at the pain in his nipples and rocks forward so the chain sways and makes it worse—back and forth, back and forth…

“Hold still now,” Carlos orders, and he does, he shakes and trembles, but he’s still as the older man slides the vibrator into him and turns it on. Steve groans and clenches around it, throat dry as he gasps for air, cheeks on fire at the wet sound his hole makes when he clenches. 

“That’s it baby, so good,” Carlos croons, running a hand over the curve of his ass, “now, you’re not being punished for anything, okay? This is about making you feel good. So, do you want my hand or do you want the paddle?” he asks and then shows it to Steve—it’s a half an inch thick of solid wood with holes drilled into it, and his cock jumps at the sight of it. 

Carlos smirks and taps his cock with the paddle, “This one, huh?” he teases, “your cock is a little slut for this one, eh?”

Steve moans and nods, ducking his head between his shoulders to hide his flaming cheeks. A hand furrows through his hair and pets him, scratches his scalp and he sighs, some of the desperate edge receding. 

“Good boy. Now, color?”

“Green,” he gasps, he’s green, very green. 

“Good mi dulce putita, good.”

Steve groans at the filthy pet name _ my sweet little slut _, and thinks dazedly for a moment that all the languages he learned never prepared him for hearing something so dirty aimed at him. It’s like a knife, the pleasure of being called something so lewd, slipping between his ribs so he bleeds out slowly, the heat filling him with every labored breath. 

The first blow takes him by surprise and he thinks Carlos must have done it that way so he didn’t tense and hurt himself. The second follows quickly on the opposite cheek and the force of them jolts him forward, sending the clamps swaying and his hole clenching around the vibrator. 

His brain, no matter how pleasure drugged, won’t let him not count, so he keeps track, somewhere in the back of his mind as they slowly work up—10, 20, 30…

His ass throbs with every blow and the vibrator jostles in his ass as the clamps sway and he’s sobbing, muscles rippling as he swings on a pendulum between pain and pleasure so sharp it feels like too much. 

He knows he’s going to come and he stutters out a warning to Carlos who promptly stops, the paddle bouncing down onto the bed while the other man grabs something. Large hands cup his cock and pull it back, pleasure shooting through him at the touch, but then he’s crying out as a band of metal is sliding over his cock and fitting snugly against his balls.

“There we go, now you don’t have to worry about coming. We’ve got your cock all tied off, hmm?”

He sobs as the ache in his balls fades and he’s left unfulfilled, desperate and leaking. Carlos pets his back and then grabs a handful of his ass, the throbbing pain there glowing bright when he digs his fingers in and then lets go. 

Steve’s cock pulses and drips and he sways, head fuzzy as his nipples ache and burn. “Good, good boy,” Carlos murmurs, “you want more of the paddle? What’s your color?”

Steve pants, mouth wet with drool as he tries to form words. Carlos squeezes his ass again and he moans, rocks into it and babbles, “Green, green sir, please, more!”

“Okay baby, okay, you can have more,” Carlos agrees. He pushes Steve’s head down till he’s braced against his forearms, ass high in the air, chest rubbing against the mattress so his tits throb and burn. 

He hangs there for a moment, wondering if Carlos changed his mind, and then the paddle connects with the meat of his ass—right where it meets the thigh and he shouts, garbling his words as his cock throbs and his chest shifts against the fabric. 

It’s...too much...not enough, and _ entirely overwhelming. _

He’s not sure how long it goes on for—time means little here in the clouds—until suddenly Carlos stops and runs his hands over Steve’s ass and hums like he’s pleased. 

“Looks so good baby, you want to see?” 

See?

He wants...yes...he wants.

He hears a sound then Carlos is beside him, showing him a photo on his phone and, _ oh, _ that’s _ his _ass...it’s a deep cherry red, all over and down his thighs and he can feel it throb and ache and sting and his cock lurches, dripping, but unable to come. 

Whining, he rocks his hips futilely, panting at the lack of friction and Carlos laughs softly, leans in to kiss him and Steve moans when he runs a hand over his ass. “That’s it mi putita, so good,” he whispers, “Stay just like that,” he encourages. 

He moves away from Steve’s side and goes behind him again and suddenly the vibrator in his ass starts to move, fucking in and out of him slowly. He gasps and rocks into it, whining when Carlos pinches his thigh, “Stay still putita,” he orders. 

Steve tries, tries so hard he shakes with it, ass clenching again and again as he’s fucked with the toy, the vibrations too low to do more than make him feel it’s there. When the vibrations ratchet up he cries out, shuddering and grinding his chest down, breathless and drooling as the pain throbs right alongside the pleasure. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for like that; the vibrations pulsing against his prostate as Carlos fucks him with it, the power level rising every few minutes—hours? Seconds? Days? He doesn’t know anymore, all he knows is pleasure and pain and the ache in his cock and the wet slide of the vibrator and the throb of his tits. 

Heat builds in his gut, the same heat he feels when he comes and he pants, rocks harder back into Carlos’s hand and whines as it builds, desperate to come, desperate for some relief from this overwhelming ache inside him. 

It grows till it fills his skin and he’s shaking and grinding his chest as a counterpoint to the pleasure, sobbing Carlos’s name as his hips shudder and then jolt, the crest of it breathtaking, mind numbing, whitewashing his brain. 

When he comes back down he realizes that he’s hard still, that his cock is still full and throbbing and is slick with pre cum but he hasn’t actually ejaculated and he wails at the loss, buries his face in the sheets and sobs, every inch of him shaking with denied pleasure. 

“Shhh, it’s okay baby, you did good,” Carlos murmurs, petting his ass. He realizes the vibrator is off now and moans at the loss of stimulation as it’s pulled out, gasping in surprise when the plug is worked in to replace it. 

Carlos guides him up and back onto the floor, clamp chain swaying, plug shifting, and onto his knees. His vision is blurry and he realizes he’s been crying when Carlos gently wipes his face off with something cool and damp. He leans into the touch and opens his eyes when Carlos calls his name and…he’s smiling...did...did he do good?

“Yea baby, you were _ so _good,” Carlos murmurs and Steve didn’t realize he had asked it out loud, hadn’t even felt the words in his mouth. Carlos pets his damp hair and pushes it back from his face, smiling soft and fond. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth mi putita, bueno?” 

Steve nods, yea, yea that sounds great...he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, some distant part of him embarrassed at how easy he is, how desperately he wants Carlos’s cock to fill him up. 

Carlos pets his cheek and smiles softly, “That’s my good putita,” he murmurs. Steve keeps his mouth open as Carlos shucks his boxers off to reveal his cock and he whines softly at the sight of it—thick and rosy and dripping. 

To his surprise Carlos doesn’t give it to him, instead he crouches down and pulls the cock ring off and clamps his hand around Steve’s balls as they try to surge forward. The older man grins and tugs on them, “Not yet baby, hold on.”

He wants to come so badly, but Carlos doesn’t want that, Carlos wants him to wait, so he swallows hard and nods, pushes aside his need and focuses on the other man. His knees pop as he stands and Steve sees the silver in the hair at the base of his cock and for some reason, _ that’s _what makes his cock twitch. 

Carlos taps his jaw and he opens wider, gaze fixed on the other man’s face as he feeds his cock into Steve’s mouth. They’ve done this more than a few times—Steve had haltingly explained his inexperience and Carlos had assured him they would take it at whatever pace he needed. 

Now, as the heft of his cock presses deep into Steve’s throat, he moans, pleasure warm and heady at the feeling of having his jaw stretched and mouth filled. 

Carlos’s hips jolt at the vibrations from Steve’s moan, the head of his cock nudging deep into Steve’s throat and for a moment, a breathless, heady moment, he can’t breathe. 

His cock twitches and spills a little, and he moans when Carlos pulls back and then rolls his hips, breathing unsteadily as he fucks Steve’s mouth, deep into his throat, over and over again. 

Tears roll down his cheeks and spit drools on his chin and he’s _ flying _, soaring as Carlos pulls his hair and fucks harder and harder into him, panting and groaning Steve’s name. 

Heat glows under his skin as Carlos mutters in Spanish, cursing and praising Steve’s mouth, droplets of sunshine on his mind that spread and build into need, deep in his belly. 

Carlos groans loudly, face contorted with pleasure as his hips snap forward, once, twice, three times and Steve tastes cum on his tongue before the other man pulls out and strokes his cock, groaning as he cums, streaks of white falling on Steve’s face. 

It’s that, the look of bliss on Carlos’s face and his exultant cry of Steve’s name—_ so good putita, my sweet Steve— _that sends him over the edge without any warning. His cock throbs and paints his stomach white, thighs shaking as his hips jolt with every jerk of his cock. 

Carlos watches him, awe in his gaze and then drops to his knees, wraps a hand around Steve’s cock and strokes him. It’s far too much and the touch has him shivering, falling forward to bury his face in Carlos’s neck, sobbing as the clamps sway. 

“That’s it Steve, come again,” Carlos demands, “come for me.” He strokes Steve even as he writhes and sobs, trying to get away without ever using any of his strength to end the torture. When Carlos tugs the clamps off and his nipples are freed Steve screams into Carlos’s shoulder, sobbing real tears as his cock throbs and he comes again. 

A hand holds him by the neck as he’s stroked, gasping and crying and shaking apart. “Good Steve, you’re so good for me,” a voice croons in his ear, low and pleased and he glows with it, even as he cries and shakes. 

The hand on his cock doesn’t slow for a moment and when it turns to pain once more he sobs harder, shaking when the hand at his neck slides down and pinches one of his nipples. The agony of it is too much and he shouts, hips jolting as his cock spurts, heat consuming his spine. 

The fingers at his chest toy with his nipples as his cock is stroked and he feels raw—like an open, exposed nerve—but he doesn’t even think of saying red because he _ wants _ this, wants the pain and the overwhelming pleasure and the voice in his ear whispering _ such a good little slut, that’s it, you’re my good boy, take it. _

And he does, he takes it as his nipples are twisted and pinched and his cock is stroked and then he’s coming again, bending in half as he shouts out his agonizing pleasure, tears streaming down his face as his cum hits his jaw and everything goes fuzzy around the edges. 

There’s a throbbing sound in his ears and a wet gasping that he realizes distantly is his breathing and the hands on his cock and tits have mercifully stopped. He’s held by strong arms, a hand in his hair gentle as a warm voice croons praise in his ear—_ beautiful Steve, you were beautiful. My sweet little pain slut, my good boy. _

Hands guide him up off his knees and he whimpers as the plug inside him, long forgotten, shifts. The plug is pulled out of him and set aside and there’s something cool and wet against his skin, wiping up the mess of his face, cock, belly, ass. 

When he’s clean he’s guided onto the bed and hands offer him juice and hold him close as he floats. “You did amazingly Steve,” the voice—_ Carlos? Tony? _—says to him. Fingers comb through his hair and he shivers, cuddles closer. 

“I...did?” he slurs, opening his eyes to look up at the man. _ It’s Carlos, not Tony... _and some part of him is disappointed. 

Carlos strokes his cheek, “You did baby, you were perfect,” he murmurs softly, gaze fond and warm. “I can’t believe how good you were for me,” he says, sounding awed, “you came from me fucking your mouth Steve, you were so beautiful.”

Steve flushes deeper and whines softly at the praise, warm on his skin, and buries his face into the crook of Carlos’s hip. The warm, salty smell of his skin is soothing and he mouths at it gently, without intent, just letting himself have the taste of Carlos on his tongue. 

Carlos plays with his hair and talks softly, praising him and smiling and Steve floats for a good while before his stomach growls loudly and Carlos laughs softly, “Stay here baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Steve’s forehead before he slips from the room. 

Steve curls into the warm spot left behind and glows happily—he did good. He made Carlos proud. 

He was good. 

Carlos returns with food and a protein shake and makes sure Steve eats it all before he falls asleep, Carlos spooning him, somehow making him feel small, delicate in a way he hasn’t since he _ was _actually small—his body well used and exhausted. 

It’s the first solid night’s sleep he’s had in years. 

* * *

_ Tony, _

_ Your assistant said you’ve gone back to the cabin so I hope this finds you ok. I know I’ve thanked you before for providing me with a physical therapist and paying for my treatment, but I want to say it again because you deserve to hear it—I appreciate you so much more than you’ll ever know. _

_ I hope you’re doing ok, I know we left things…. _

_ I’m sorry Tony, I shouldn’t have come there and tried to make you forgive me. It wasn’t fair to try and force us back into friendship when you didn’t want to see me. _

_ I’m always fucking up when it comes to you. _

_ I owe you so much better. _

_ I’m making you a promise now; I’ll always be here for you Tony. I’ll be honest with you, ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll never lie to you again. _

_ Yours, Steve _

_ Steve, _

_ Language! _

_ I did what I did because it was the right thing. You…were my teammate and family and even if I want to throttle you, I’m still going to want you alive. _

_ I’m glad you’ve recovered well—I got weekly reports since I was still your emergency contact(can’t believe you never changed that). _

_ I’m fine. _

_ I’ll be at the cabin for a few weeks I think—the city gets too hot, this time of year. _

_ Try not to get yourself killed, ok? _

_ TS _

_ Tony, _

_ Can I tell you a secret? It’s not actually my birthday. They changed it after Project Rebirth to make me more appealing to there American public during the war and the only ones who knew when it really was were Bucky and Peggy. _

_ I still remember when I turned 18 and Buck bought us a god awful bottle of moonshine from some shiner in the woods who’d gone blind from his own stuff. _

_ We went to Coney Island and rode the Ferris Wheel—the only ride I could get on without my vertigo acting up—and drank till we were both pretty sloshed. _

_ We ate hot dogs and cotton candy till I was sick and I had a hell of a hangover the next day, but it was the best birthday I’d ever had. _

_ I miss being that little guy sometimes, even if I was sick all the time, at least I knew who liked me for me and not just Captain America. _

_ Yours, _

_ Steve _

_ Steve, _

_ I knew it wasn’t your birthday—you, well, you didn’t know this, but my dad talked about you all the time. He had a goddamn shrine to you in his study and I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. _

_ I knew everything there was to know about you; who your mother was, your father’s name, the hijinks you and Barnes got up to together—I knew it all. _

_ I looked up to you so much—that little guy that would throw himself into the fray against the biggest bully he could find without any fear. _

_ I think that’s why I couldn’t let the suit just be something that helped me escape from the Ten Rings—I knew there were bullies out there ten times bigger and I had to do something. _

_ I figured, if little Steve Rogers could do it, maybe I could too. _

_ I always liked Steve Rogers better than Captain America anyway. _

_ Happy birthday anyway, Steve. _

_ Tony _

_ Tony, _

_ I shouldn’t be surprised you knew all that about me—you’re a genius and so damned clever—nothing about you should surprise me anymore. _

_ Nat might be the spy, but you’ve got your secrets too, huh? _

_ Maybe someday I’ll earn your trust and you can tell me some of them. _

_ Yours, _

_ Steve _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a HUUUUUGEEEEE shout out to my girl Tina for creating the artwork in the right corner of the moodboard. Pictured in the moodboard is Carlos, Cristina and Karen Page--new characters this chapter/year. If you'd like to commission her, please check out her Ko-fi at xarles56. Thank you all for your continued support, your comments and kudos mean the world to me!
> 
> I saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
😭 = I got you right in the feels  
🔥 = this was so hot!  
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


	3. Year Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony thinks about Steve probably too much for someone he supposedly can't stand. Carlos wonders if there's any way for him to compete with Tony in Steve's eyes. As one relationship changes, so does another.

* * *

Summer bleeds into fall and Tony watches the leaves turn, crisping as the air cools, the rolling mountains in the distance coppery in the sunlight.

When he stands on his back porch and looks out at the lake in the morning he imagines watching Steve see this view for the first time—eyes going wide at the light filtering through the forest, the gleam of the lake in the distance, the trees afire with color. 

He does this more—thinks about Steve, wonders if he thinks about Tony too—or maybe his new boyfriend takes up all his thoughts. 

The coffee in his mug abruptly tastes bitter and he scowls at it, flicking the lukewarm liquid out with a snap of his wrist that sends it sailing over the edge of the porch. 

He has more important things to do than mull over what Steve Rogers and his boyfriend are getting up to. 

* * *

Carlos watches Steve play with Cristina, watches the way he laughs and smiles and sees how it doesn’t erase the lines around his eyes or the shadows within and wonders if he’s going to see the day when the man can no longer hide from the truth. 

He’s not dumb—he always knew Steve was in love with someone else. He’d hoped that with time Steve’s heart would let go and open to him, to let himself heal, to move on. 

It’s been nearly eight months that they’ve been together and he thinks sometimes Steve is sadder now than he was when they first met. 

The letters are a part of it he thinks—he hasn’t read them, but he knows who replies to Steve’s missives and understands that Steve has been trying to repair what was broken—but he worries that the younger man himself is broken too, and there’s not much Carlos can do to help if Steve can’t acknowledge it for himself. 

Cristina shrieks with delight as Steve tosses her into the air and then catches her, his big arms secure around her tiny frame, a wide smile on his face that doesn’t quite chase away the sorrow in his gaze. 

Steve glances over and smiles softly at him and Carlos’s chest pinches; he’s so beautiful, and so _ broken _. 

* * *

He’s been working for probably close to 36 hours straight but he’s _ finally _close to figuring out the issue that’s been plaguing the nanites in the housing unit. Ever since Titan—when he’d been stabbed and nearly died—he’d known that the suit needed to be stronger, faster. 

The only problem was, he had no idea how to increase the strength without sacrificing weight and winding up with a heavier suit. He and Shuri had gone back and forth for weeks on it—he’d spent some time in Wakanda and met the Dora Milaje and had the chance to train with them—if getting his ass handed to him repeatedly by a group of women both beautiful and deadly could be considered _ training _.

It was Shuri who suggested making the suit out of Vibranium nanites to improve the defense system and had even helped him to trick it out with some new weapons that were, quite frankly, genius. 

It was there, in Wakanda, that he’d seen where Barnes had been treated and walked the same paths that Steve had while he was on the run. He had sat by a lake and watched goats frolic and wondered if this was the life his father had envisioned for him. 

It’s certainly not the life he pictured for himself even a few years ago when the team was still together and Steve was his best friend outside of Rhodey. 

“We come to you from the Sara Rogers Brooklyn Home for the People where the one and only Captain America is putting the finishing touches on the building that bears his mother’s name. Captain, can you tell us a little bit more about this new charity you’ve created?”

Tony looks up, brow furrowing at the interruption to his concentration—he’d had music on, why was the news on? 

Before he can ask FRI, he notices Steve is on the screen, flannel shirt hanging open over a fitted white tank top and worn jeans, the sleeves rolled up to expose his golden forearms. 

He’s smiling in the way Tony’s come to know means he disagrees with what you’ve said but isn’t rude enough to call it out. 

He sets aside the precision laser and reaches for his coffee as Steve responds to the perky young red headed reporter’s question, grimacing when the taste of long cold coffee hits his tongue. 

“Well thank you Tammie,” Steve responds politely and Tony snorts when the young woman turns an unflattering shade of red, eyes glued to Steve’s face. “The Home isn’t a charity—it’s a place where those in need can come to get food for their families, can get clean clothes and job training and a bed for the night—or for as long as they need. We turn away no one who needs help, because in times like these we’re all family and family doesn’t turn their back on each other,” he says solemnly and something in Tony’s chest pangs at the utter sincerity of his words.

He’s reminded once again of how young Steve still is—despite having been in this century for eight years and being in his early thirties, he’s still so _ young _. 

The man doesn’t even have _ wrinkles _ and that’s the most insulting thing Tony’s ever seen. His own face is lined and tired—he doesn’t bother to cover his greys anymore and the gossip mags have officially labeled him a _ silver fox. _

The red head nods, starry eyed, “And what lead you to creating this organization Captain?”

Tony snorts at the narrowing of Steve’s eyes—if there’s anything the younger man hates its being reduced to the figurehead of Captain America when he’s only ever wanted to be seen as Steve Rogers. 

“Steve, please,” he says with a deprecating smile, “well, I created the project when I was talking with a friend about how many people had lost the breadwinner of the family, or the children that have been orphaned. I know what that’s like—I grew up during the depression a sick kid with a mother who worked herself to the bone to keep me fed and a father who drank up every cent we had and I knew, if there was any way I could help, I had to do it.” 

There are tears shining in Tammie’s eyes and Tony scoffs, takes another sip from his mug and scowls at it again for not having heated up in the interim between now and his last sip. 

“That’s incredible Captain,” Tammie breathes and Steve’s shoulders sink a little, his smile fading a notch at her starry eyed and breathy admiration. “And you plan on opening more houses around the country?” she asks.

Steve nods, “We’ll be having a fundraising event in a few weeks to raise funds for new locations. We’re hoping to have three new Homes open in LA, Chicago and Houston by 2021. Visit our website to learn more and if you can, any donation amount helps.”

Tammie smiles and then turns to the camera, “There you have it folks; Captain America needs your help! 

Tony watches a little longer, finishing off the mug of cold coffee as Steve laughs and smiles with a group of people in work clothes; they hang the sign outside the front door declaring the building the ** _Sara Rogers Brooklyn Home for the People _ **and Steve hammers in the final nail himself, muscles flexing and hair gleaming in the sun. 

The parting image before the newscast goes back to the studio is of Steve, hands on his hips, grinning at a handsome older man that Tony knows in an instant must be the man he’s written to Tony about. 

Steve smiles at him like he’s the sun and Steve is a morning glory, seeking out it’s warm rays. Steve’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and just before the shot cuts away, the older man cups Steve’s elbow and smiles and leans in and for a wild moment Tony thinks he’s going to kiss Steve, but he just whispers something that makes Steve’s cheeks go pink as he laughs. 

Tony stares blankly as the display of the news goes dark, leaving him alone with his increasingly troubled thoughts. 

* * *

_ Steve, _

_ Saw you on the news the other day—I had no idea you were starting a philanthropic organization. I’m not really surprised—you’ve always been a good man. _

_ I think my mother would have liked yours. Everything I’ve ever read about Sara, she seems like a strong woman. She must have been, to raise a pain in the ass like you! _

_ You never talked much about your dad. I read he was a veteran, died when you were young. Didn’t find much more than that—I’m sorry he wasn’t...that he didn’t take care of you. _

_ Shit we really are a pair huh? Daddy issues galore. _

_ I hope your fundraising event goes well. The people deserve to have someone as kind and generous as you looking out for them. _

_ Tony _

* * *

Tony stares at the letter from Steve—it’s not an actual letter this time, but a drawing with a little note at the bottom, _ Mothers, Heroes. _

It’s stunning—a beautifully detailed drawing of Maria and Sara, standing together laughing and smiling; their shadows cast onto the walls have capes fluttering in the wind and hands on hips, and at their feet are two young boys, one frail and blonde, the other sturdier and dark haired. 

The boys play with tin soldiers, one with a shield, the other a gold and red suit of armor. 

His vision blurs and he runs his thumb in the barest touch over the lines of Maria’s face; _ god _ how he misses her. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if she’d be proud of the man he’s become. 

* * *

Carlos wipes the sweat from his brow—it’s unreasonably hot in Miami, and they’ve been out in the sun for hours, building the next Home for Steve’s organization. 

They’re joined by construction crews and locals, and more than a few folks had been surprised to see Professor Banner, Natasha Romanoff and War Machine there joining them, but Carlos is secretly grateful. 

Steve seems happier with his friends around; his smiles are brighter and he laughs more, competing with Bruce to see who can get more done while Natasha and Rhodes do fine tuning work on the plumbing and roofing. 

They’re almost done for the day—the locals have mostly gone home and the construction crew is tidying up—when a sleek silver Audi pulls up to the site and the air suddenly goes still. He sees Natasha and Rhodes staring—gazes flickering between the vehicle and Steve—standing close to each other, fingers brushing. 

His gaze wanders on and finds his boyfriend; Steve is like a statue, hammer in hand, watching the vehicle idle for a minute before the engine shuts off and a man recognizable around the world steps out.

Carlos sees the tension in Steve’s shoulders tighten and watches from a distance as Tony Stark approaches his boyfriend. He looks out of place here; most everyone is in worn and dirty jeans and work boots, but this man, he’s in jeans that look new and sneakers with barely a haze of dust on them from the mess of the worksite. 

Worry knots his stomach—he knows how badly the last meeting between Steve and Tony went. 

He takes a minute step forward, ready to step in if things get...violent. 

Tony stops about a foot from Steve and then glances around the work site, gaze landing on him for a moment, dark and assessing behind his rose tinted sunglasses, and then it’s gone and back on Steve. 

“Thought maybe you might need a hand,” he murmurs to Steve and Carlos can see the moment the words sink in for the younger man because his shoulders slump and he can see Steve’s hand on the hammer flex and relax, flex and relax. 

He worries—Steve is so _ fragile _, despite his Atlas like appearance and reassuring smiles, Carlos knows that with the right hit to the right spot, the facade his boyfriend wears will crumble like the walls of Jericho. 

Natasha and Rhodes step up beside Steve and Tony shoots them a warm smile, one that reaches his eyes. His gaze flickers back to Steve, who still hasn’t said anything, face tightening with unease as the larger man just stares at him. 

The tension is palpable now, and Carlos knows that if he doesn’t step in, the other man will leave and Steve will have lost his chance at mending fences. He knows how deeply Steve hurts over his estrangement with Tony, how much he loves the other man, even if he’ll never admit it to Carlos(or himself). 

Carlos makes a split second decision and steps up, hand going to squeeze Steve’s elbow, drawing his wide, spooked gaze down. He smiles softly, encouragingly and nods, “We’d love some help, right babe?”

Steve inhales unsteadily and nods, turns to look at Tony and smiles shakily, “I’m happy you’re here,” he offers, “glad to have the help.”

Tony rocks on his toes and then back down to the flats of his feet, gaze skipping away to peer over their shoulders like he could care less, but the lines around his mouth tell the truth—he’s nervous. 

“Great, happy to lend a hand,” he replies, gaze flickering back to them before his trademark thousand watt smile shines at them. 

It’s the best mask Carlos has ever seen. 

Maybe even as good as the one Steve wears. 

It’s dark by the time they finish cleaning up the work site and securing everything, and when Natasha suggests they have dinner together, Carlos can feel the tension in the air return. 

Steve and Tony trade not so subtle glances when they think the other isn’t watching and before he can step in, Tony smiles and shakes his head regretfully. “Sorry guys, early meeting, if I’m not there on time Karen will have my head,” he jokes, eyes flickering over to Steve and then to Carlos, his smile just a shade too tight to be genuine.

Rhodes clears his throat and moves to embrace the other man, murmurs something in his ear and they share a wry grin when they part. 

Tony waves them off as he retreats to his car, and for a moment they all watch the tail lights burn into the night before fading away. 

“Right, let’s eat,” Rhodes declares and just like that, the moment is broken. 

Steve is wound tight all night, smiling and nodding, participating in the conversation but not really all there and it breaks Carlos’s heart to see his boyfriend so utterly lost. 

He’s not surprised when they get back to the hotel and Steve kneels, eyes wide and blue and pleading. 

He cups Steve’s cheek and wipes away the dampness beneath his eye that neither of them will speak of, not till he breaks Steve down and then puts him back together.

He wonders as Steve sobs and begs if someday soon he’ll be able to make Steve genuinely happy. 

He wonders, as he holds him after, if Steve even knows what being happy _ is _. 

There’s an expiration date on this, and he can feel it coming, creeping closer every day. 

* * *

Tony downs another glass of whiskey, wincing at the burn before gulping yet more down.

God, what was he _ thinking _ coming here? 

Steve had looked petrified to see him, eyes wide and crystal blue, jaw so taut it looked like it might shatter under the immense pressure. 

The man, the one who stepped up, it must be the boyfriend. 

He’s avoided searching to find out who he is—he doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about Steve smiling and laughing and happy with someone who…someone who isn’t…

_ Fuck _

(Someone who isn’t _ him _ he thinks, loathing himself for letting the thought form in the first place.) 

Not thinking—_ that’s _ what he needs. 

He pours more whiskey. 

* * *

_ Tony, _

_ Thank you for coming to help us in Miami. That means more to me than you know. I’m sorry...I’m sorry I froze. I wasn’t expecting you. I didn’t think… _

_ I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. _

_ I’m glad you came. _

_ I’ve missed you. _

_ Yours, Steve _

* * *

Carlos watches as Steve buttons up his green flannel shirt, fingers still a little shaky after their scene. He’d made sure Steve was all the way up before he let him out of bed, but he can see that even if he’s out of subspace, Steve is still a million miles away. 

His hair is still damp from the shower and it smells faintly of Armani cologne—an indulgence Steve is still unsure of, but Carlos knows he secretly enjoys. Carlos loves the way it smells; musky with sandalwood and leather undertones, warm to the senses when he slides behind Steve and presses his lips to his neck. 

Steve smiles at him in the mirror, tilting his head to the side so Carlos can kiss and nip at the skin of his neck a little more, his hands tugging on Steve’s belt so his hips are slotted back against Carlos’s. 

Steve’s lids flutter and Carlos knows if he pushes and keeps pushing, Steve will slip back under--he already looks like he’s starting to skim the surface again, limbs softening as Carlos presses another kiss to his throat. 

“Be safe,” he murmurs in Steve’s ear, meeting his stunning blue gaze with a soft smile. 

Craning his neck, Steve leans in for a kiss, smiling softly, “Always,” he replies, his rejoinder familiar after nearly a year together. 

It’s quiet after he’s gone and Carlos flips on the tv, scrolling through the channels till a documentary on Tony Stark and the Avengers catches his eye. He opens a beer, the condensation cool against his hand as he watches, trying to understand the man his boyfriend is so devastatingly in love with. 

* * *

Tony laughs, heart light in his chest as Rhodey curses, brow furrowed in a scowl as he’s sent to monopoly jail for the third time tonight. Nat has a smirk on her lips like the cat that caught the canary; half the properties are hers and both he and Rhodey have been nearly wiped out by the taxes and fines they’ve had to fork over. 

When she wins handily in another ten minutes Rhodey curses but grins at her, affection blazing in his eyes so warmly it makes Tony look away, an echoing longing filling his chest. 

He remembers all the times he’d looked at Pepper like that, of how even just her laugh had been enough to cheer him up. When he’d found out she had survived the snap only to die in a car crash, he’d been devastated. 

There had been some part of him that had thought maybe…

But there wasn’t any way to fix that. 

She’s as lost to him as his mother is, and it’s a bitter pill that he chases with whiskey. (He’d found some out of date Xanax and taken one of those earlier too.)

He’s pulled from his darkening thoughts by a kiss to his cheek from Nat and a squeeze of his shoulder by Rhodey, their fingers twined together as they head off to the spare bedroom of the cabin. 

He’s grateful they’ve come to spend time with him; it livens up the house, keeps him from getting too lost in the past. 

It’s someplace he’s been lingering a lot lately. Steve has been sending him letters with more drawings—a comic strip of sorts featuring their mothers, saving the world and pressing kisses to bruised knees, and it makes his heart ache with every one that comes, but there’s no way he can tell the man to _ stop _, not now, not when each letter and drawing makes his heart skip a beat. 

He takes his whiskey to the back porch and watches as the fireflies dance in the late summer breeze, the air humid and soft against his skin. The light is faded now, nearly fully dark and he closes his eyes as he reclines in his chair, letting the whiskey and Xanax soften him, sinking into the silky feel of it in his blood. 

He closes his eyes and dreams. 

_ “Mom! Mom! Look!” _

_ His heart thrums with excitement and he holds his hands tightly closed, the fluttering of wings against his palms tickling softly. _

_ His mother looks up from where she’s behind the wheel of the Cadillac, her smile not quite bright enough to reach her eyes. _

_ He hurries over, wincing as his bare feet dance over the gravel of the driveway. She opens the car door and turns toward him with a soft, sad smile and he sidles up beside her, eager to show her his prize. _

_ “Look!” he whispers excitedly, uncupping his hands slowly to reveal the steady glow of the firefly trapped within. _

_ She makes a soft sound and smiles, “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs softly, “but we can’t keep it,” she tells him, smiling when he protests. _

_ “Why not!” _

_ “Because mío cuore beautiful things that fly free should never be trapped in a jar,” she explains, eyes sad and distant. This close he can see a cleverly hidden bruise on her cheek and another encircling her wrist. _

_ She smiles, sad and sweet, and brushes hair back from his brow, “We enjoy beautiful things _ ** _because_ ** _ they are free,” she murmurs wistfully, “all things should be free, do you understand Tony?” she asks, and he doesn’t, really, but he nods anyway. _

_ “Let’s set him free then, hmm?” she encourages and he nods, opens his hands wider and they both watch as the little light glows steadily, and then whirs off into the night, glowing warmly. _

_ She smiles and pulls him close, and though he’s five and too big to be held like this—according to Howard anyway—he wiggles deeper into her arms and breaths in the scent of her Chanel perfume. _

_ The lights dance and glow, moving to some rhythm he can’t hear, as ancient as time, as endless as the sky, and when he closes his eyes later that night, the lights dance behind his lids as he drifts off to sleep. _

* * *

The housing unit to the suit glows with a steady white light, the finishing touches on it complete. He stares down at it for a long time, heart thrumming in his throat, anticipation making his palms sweat. 

It’s been months since he wore the suit for anything other than tests and he’s oddly nervous; with the help of Shuri, this suit is impenetrable to all known substances both of Earth and alien origin. 

It’ll never be perfect; there’ll always be something out there that’s stronger, faster, better, but he can only hope that with time he’ll be able to make improvements, to keep on fighting to protect the world. 

He’s been thinking about it a lot lately; how he’d told Loki that if they couldn’t save the world, they’d avenge it. How he’d told Steve and the others he’d created Ultron to be a shield for the world. How scared he’d been by the nightmare vision Wanda had put into his mind. 

He thinks of the last and shudders; he’s had more nightmares recently, ones where he watches his team, his family, crumble to ash before his eyes, unable to stop it. 

It’s always Steve last—blue eyes wide and pleading as he reaches out, gasping Tony’s name before he dissolves into nothingness. 

Shoving back from the work table, he runs a shaky hand over his face, turning away from the reactor housing unit, unable to look at it anymore. 

The house is quiet when he steps out of the work shop, empty now that Nat and Rhodey are back in the city. 

He stands in the middle of the kitchen and stares at all the things his money has bought and aches at the utter emptiness he feels. 

He’d give anything to not be quite so alone. 

* * *

Of all the things he’s done, all the bad habits that had him on front pages of tabloids, he’s never done _ this _ before. 

He flushes a little to think that Karen might find out what he’s doing, but he also knows that she doesn’t judge him for his broken heart and occasional bad decision making. 

Still, waiting for the escort to arrive at the cabin is nerve wracking in a way he isn’t familiar with. Up until the car arrives and the man steps out he’s of half a mind to cancel, send an enormous tip, and forget he ever had this stupid idea. 

And then the man steps forward and smiles at Tony, blonde hair shimmering in the evening light, bright blue eyes warm as he steps forward and waves before extending his hand to Tony. 

“Hi, I’m Tiberius,” he greets Tony, handshake firm, teeth straight and white, “but you can call me Ty.”

Tony swallows hard and nods, “Why don’t you come inside Ty,” he offers, stepping back slightly to allow the younger man to move forward. He watches him move, the shift of muscle under his shirt and the anticipation in his gut changes into something hotter, heavier. 

Ty pauses at the open door and looks back, casting him an uncertain smile. 

“You coming?” he calls, holding a hand out to Tony. 

He can still say no—send him away and go get drunk, forget this ever happened, forget that for the first time in his life he’s paying for sex. 

He won’t though. 

It’s already too late to save his soul, so he might as well enjoy his damnation. 

“Yea, I’m coming.”

He climbs the stairs and takes Ty’s hand, shutting the door on the last of the late summer fireflies and his misgivings, leaving both to the darkness of the deepening twilight. 

* * *

Steve is asleep on the couch when Carlos shuts the front door behind him, exhausted after a long day of work. He pauses for a moment, smiling softly when he sees Cristina asleep on Steve’s chest. 

No matter what, he’s grateful that his princesa got to be loved by Steve. It’s a rare privilege—to be loved by Steve Rogers, and he wonders if Tony Stark knows what he’s missing out on. 

His mood darkens at the thought of the other man; Steve and the billionaire are still exchanging letters, near daily, and though he doesn’t read them, he sees Steve’s face when one arrives—hopeful and happy and eager. 

It’s heartbreaking to see the man he loves so utterly gone on someone else while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge that fact to himself. Steve is a brilliant man, kind and gentle, a hero—but he’s also lived through two lifetimes of trauma and Carlos knows for a fact he’s never sought therapy for any of it. 

Steve’s therapy is writing letters to a man who doesn’t know that Steve’s in love with him and going out on the streets at night to fight crime until his knuckles are bloodied and he’s bone weary. 

It’s untenable at best and self destructive at the very least and it pains Carlos to know he’s going to have to end this because Steve never will. Steve would let them go on, pretending like he was fine, pretending like he knew how to be happy. 

Swallowing hard, Carlos sets down his bag and smiles weakly when Steve’s eyes open and meet his with a sleepy smile, one large hand tightening where it rests on Cristina’s back. 

Pushing aside his train of thought, he toes off his sneakers and pads over to the couch, bends down and kisses Tina’s hair, inhaling the sweet sleepy scent of her before he turns his attention to Steve.

Tangling his fingers in Steve’s hair, he kisses him softly, humming at the pliable heat of Steve’s mouth opening so easily to him. When he pulls back, Steve’s gaze is hazy and his lips are wet, parted and pink. 

Carlos’s gaze flicks go Tina and then back to Steve. 

“Let’s put her to bed,” he murmurs and then tugs on Steve’s hair gently to watch the color leach from his eyes as his pupils swallow up the crystalline blue of his gaze. 

Steve swallows hard and nods faintly, lips parted around a breathy sound, “Yes sir,” he whispers, igniting the liquid heat that’s simmered in his veins all day—he’s been thinking about this since this morning when he’d woken and found Steve jerking off. 

Once he’d denied Steve’s orgasm, he knew that it would only be a short time till they both needed this—a spark against tinder, blazing to life when given oxygen. 

They transfer Tina to the guest bedroom and when the bedroom door to Carlos’s room shuts, he turns and finds Steve is already kneeling. 

A pang of greedy pride slithers through his belly—Tony Stark might unknowingly hold Steve’s heart, but it’s only Carlos who has gotten to see Steve kneel like this. 

Perhaps it makes him a bad man, how much he enjoys this fact. 

He can’t really find it in him to care when Steve is so very soft and obedient and staring up at him with stars in his eyes. 

If it’s all going to be over soon, he’s going to enjoy this as many times as he can before it’s gone. 

Reaching a hand out, he fists Steve’s hair and thrills at the gasp it elicits, as always. 

“My putita,” he croons, “all _ mine. _” 

* * *

“Sir?”

Tony looks up from his desk, smiling softly when Karen steps into the room with a warm smile and a stack of paper that doesn’t bode well for his continued tinkering. 

“Whatcha got for me Page?”

She smiles and takes the seat opposite him, “Invitations to events, correspondence from fans and requests for aid. I thought we should start going through them together,” she murmurs, lifting the first envelope so he can see it’s written in colored pencil, addressed to Iron Man, the handwriting childish and unsteady. 

_ Christ _ he’s gonna need a drink to get through this. 

He nods and waves a hand, “Alright, let's do it,” he mutters, already prepared for the questions and demands within. 

_ Why didn’t you stop Thanos? _

_ Where is Captain America? _

_ Please bring back my mommy and daddy! _

He pours a tumbler half full of whiskey and ignores the tiny arched brow Karen gives him for pouring so heavy before—he glances at the clock and winces—eleven am. He takes a sip before they start delving into the stack of paper that’s half a foot thick. 

So much for his good mood. 

* * *

Carlos watches as Steve tugs nervously at his tie, the narrow fit of the suit showing off his broad shoulders and tapered waist in a way that makes his blood heat pleasantly. 

He’d do something about it but they’re already going to be late because he’d had Steve on his knees in the shower, fucking his mouth till he’d come, pulling out at the last moment to jerk his cock so the last ropes of cum landed on Steve’s face. 

He’s kept Steve soft and pliable all day, keeping the nerves away in the face of the charity gala. He watches as Steve’s fingers fumble with his bow tie and smiles softly, rising from the bed to turn him around with a gentle hand on his broad shoulder.

“Need a hand soldier?” he teases softly, chest aching when Steve’s bright blue eyes soften and his plush mouth curls into a bashful smile. 

His knuckles brush the smooth skin of Steve’s throat and he can feel it when the younger man swallows hard, shifting nearly imperceptibly at the soft touch. 

Once it’s straight he tugs on Steve’s lapels and pulls him down for a kiss, humming softly when Steve leans into him, large hands spanning his waist. When he pulls back, Steve’s eyes are heavily hooded and his lips are wet, a blushy red that begs for more. 

Setting aside the need he feels, Carlos smiles and pats Steve’s chest softly, “C’mon, you don't wanna be late to your own gala,” he murmurs. 

Steve smiles and nods, turning to check his appearance one last time in the mirror before Carlos pulls him away. 

It’s only about twenty minutes to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and every moment that passes in the limo, Carlos sees Steve tense further. His strong jaw is clenched, twitching as the younger man stares out the window of the car at the passing lights, the swirl of colors staining his pale cheeks red and blue and gold. 

He wants to make this easier for Steve, to help ease some of the tension, but he’s not sure giving him a command would be the best solution—he doesn’t want to send Steve into that floaty headspace that’s reserved for when they’re alone, he just wants to ease the tension and get him relaxed. 

With a smirk, he turns toward Steve, angling his body so his knee presses into the outside of Steve’s thigh. The pressure of it is enough to get his attention, his blue eyes dark and distant as he lifts a questioning brow at Carlos. The older man slides his hand up Steve’s thick thigh, appreciating as always the firm muscle beneath his palm. 

Steve shoots the privacy partition a glance—it’s closed, but as Carlos knows, not _ particularly _ sound proof. He’ll stop if Steve wants him to, of course, but he’s pretty sure Steve won’t. His palm skims up the silk of Steve’s trousers, sliding along the inside of his thigh, the drag of his nails against the fabric eliciting a susurration of sound and a sigh from Steve. 

Shifting to his knees, Carlos smirks softly at Steve’s look of surprise, shifting to palm at the bulge growing in the dark fabric of his slacks. “Why don’t I help you with that?” he murmurs softly, lifting a brow when Steve shifts for a moment, looking uncomfortable, gaze darting to the divider once more before nodding slowly. 

“Good boy.” He murmurs the praise, watching as the praise sends a shudder over Steve’s spine as it always does. He grinds his palm into Steve’s cock, enjoying the low whine it elicits and then does it again, watching as Steve sinks deeper into the slow spread of pleasure that he knows is filling his veins. 

He keeps stroking him, grip firm and fingers teasing at the head till Steve is panting and rocking his hips up with needy little sounds, gaze heavily hooded as he stares down at Carlos. The power in this moment is heady—Steve trusts him to give him what he needs, and Carlos is going to make sure that happens because Steve is deliciously sweet for him, so easy and malleable that were Steve with anyone else, Carlos would worry they would take advantage of those very qualities. 

When he finally unzips Steve’s trousers his cock is flushed a deep red, leaking and twitching at the cool air on his skin. Steve whines when Carlos drags his nail over the head of his cock, hips bucking as his cock spills out a thick line of pre cum. 

“Look at you baby, you’re leaking like a little girl,” Carlos murmurs, grinning at how riled up it makes Steve—he moans and rolls his head to the side, as if he’s trying to hide from his own pleasure, from the way Carlos’s words make him shake. 

That won’t do.

“Look at me baby,” Carlos demands, pinching Steve’s thigh when he doesn’t immediately comply. When those ocean blue eyes meet his he smiles encouragingly, adoring the blush that’s spreading over Steve’s cheeks, lips bitten and pinked, gleaming in the low light. “There you are my dulce putita,” he croons, leaning in to kiss the head of Steve’s cock, the tang of cum on his tongue when he licks delicately across the hot skin. 

Steve whines and Carlos hears the tearing of fabric; Steve’s clenching onto the seats so tightly he’s ripping the seams of the leather, trying to be good, trying to keep his hands to himself. Taking pity on the younger man, he licks at the head of his cock again and then swallows him down, sucking and tonguing at the hot flesh in his mouth as Steve whines and bucks into his mouth. 

He’s so sensitive—so easy to play with and get off, and there’s a very large part of Carlos that wonders if maybe this would be enough for them—Steve’s happy enough with him and he knows how to take care of the younger man, how to make him sink into a deep and easy headspace—maybe someday he’d be truly happy with Carlos. 

Steve moans louder when he swallows around the head of his cock and it’s enough to push away his preoccupation, bring the situation at hand back to the fore, and with a renewed sense of purpose, he swallows around Steve’s cock and slurps noisily on his way back up to tease and tongue at the weeping slit. 

A hand cups the back of his head and he looks up at Steve through the thick of his lashes and the look of pure desperation on Steve’s face is enough to make him groan and suck as hard as he can, fisting the rest of his cock till Steve’s crying out and spilling over his tongue. He licks and sucks till Steve’s cock is clean and half hard and then carefully tucks him away before he leans up and kisses Steve hard. 

The younger man pants against his lips, one large hand at the back of his head, holding him close, gentle and sweet. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, kissing Carlos hard, “thank you so much.”

Carlos leans into the embrace and kisses Steve till his lips burn pleasantly, soft and languid little kisses that trail away into nothing more than brushes of their lips together, skin tingling and wet. Steve’s eyes are shut and Carlos takes the time to look at him—to _ really _ look—and traces his fingers over the blush on his cheek and the fine lines between his brows that speak of lingering tension that’s never really gone from his body unless he’s deep into subspace. 

The car rolls to a halt outside his daughter’s home, and while they wait for Cristina to join them, Carlos takes a few moments to arrange his hair and fix Steve’s tie before kissing him swiftly.

Cristina bounces on the seats, chattering excitedly as they near the Gala and when the roll up, she’s first out the door before he and Steve are stepping out into the flash of paparazzi cameras, Steve’s hand firmly in his. 

* * *

Karen saves it for last and he knows why as soon as he sees the handwriting on the envelope. He’s gotten enough letters by now to know who it’s from, and it makes his heart beat faster. She hands it over and sits back in her seat, eyes glued to her phone, but he knows she’s still watching, can feel her gaze even if it’s not on him physically. 

The cardstock is heavy, expensive, and maybe it’s his imagination, but it smells a little like old paper, the warm scent of vanilla and dust reaching his nose as he works a finger under the seam of the envelope. His fingers tremble as he pulls out the invitation, startling slightly when an additional slip of paper falls out into his lap. 

He reads over the invitation carefully, avoiding looking at the other paper till he’s read the damn thing three times and can no longer avoid it. Setting aside the invitation, he picks up the note and unfolds it, swallowing hard when Steve’s familiar handwriting greets him. 

_ Tony, _

_ I know you’re a busy man, but it would mean the world to me if you came to the gala. I’d like the chance to speak to you face to face, to try and make things better. I know you don’t trust me, not yet, but I’m hoping you’ll give me a chance to earn that back. _

_ I want to be a good friend again Tony. _

_ I want to fix what I broke. _

_ Yours, _

_ Steve _

When he looks up his lashes are wet and his throat is thick and he has to swallow a few times before he’s sure he won’t cry. Karen sighs softly and reaches out, her hand firm around his and he ducks his chin, furious with himself that he’s so weak that a few pleading words from the man who’d nearly killed him have made him so soft. 

He needs better armor, he thinks, something strong enough to protect him from a super soldier’s desperation. 

Karen’s fingers tighten around his and he closes his eyes, holds onto her as he breathes unsteadily, chest aching under the weight of his ghosts. 

It’s too bad one of them is still alive and well, haunting him. 

* * *

Carlos can pinpoint the moment Steve sees Tony enter the room because he turns into a statue for a long moment, so still Carlos is sure he’s not breathing, and then as the older man works his way through the room, shaking hands and smiling, Steve exhales deeply, hands clenching by his sides. 

He’s surprised when instead of making his way toward Tony, Steve turns back to he and Cristina and smiles, a little shaky, but still bright. Cristina grabs Steve’s hand and demands his attention, pointing out the other Avengers that have come to show their support, demanding to be introduced. 

Steve shoots him a grin that’s filled with affection, eyes soft as he agrees to introduce Cristina to the team. He sees it in the way Steve is so gentle with her, how he bends his head attentively and smiles softly—this is a man built for love. 

A quick press of lips to the corner of his mouth and then they’re gone, Tina’s hand firmly in Steve’s, her head held high as he guides her through the crowds to where Natasha Romanoff and James Rhodes stand together looking at a Van Gogh. Steve must say something because they turn and then both Avengers are crouching down to smile and shake hands with Tina. 

He can’t help the seed of warmth that bursts to life in his chest, watching as she turns shy, one hand clinging to Steve’s while she smiles bashfully. Natasha says something and then produces a knife from somewhere and Tina goes wide eyed, stepping forward to touch the flat of the blade before grinning. 

“Nat is surprisingly good with kids. Not what you’d expect from a former assassin, I know, but she’s secretly a softy.”

He looks away from his granddaughter and finds Tony Stark at his side, staring at the group, sipping something amber colored and expensive no doubt. The other man avoids his gaze for a moment later before looking over and winking, “Don’t tell her I said so of course, she’d leave something nasty in my bed.”

Despite his wariness over the murky waters of the relationship his boyfriend has with this man, he’s charmed. Laughing softly, he nods, “Your secret is safe with me,” he assures the other man. 

There’s something assessing in the billionaire’s eyes for a moment before he nods and smiles, “Good, good.” Stark gestures with his glass towards the group clustered together, “She yours?” he asks politely, gaze lingering on the tall blonde figure in the group for a moment.

“My granddaughter,” he replies, “my children are all grown,” he says with a brush of his fingers against his silvery black hair, a wry grin on his lips, “Now I get the joy of returning her to her parents at the end of the day.”

Stark laughs and nods, leans against the bar beside him, “I can’t say I’ve ever spent much time around kids, but it does seem handing them off to someone else is a thing,” he says, and this time his smile isn’t so bright—it’s tighter and distant, like he knows from personal experience that being handed off isn’t _ always _ a good thing. 

“Mmm, well, it can be. Steve and I both enjoy having her around though,” he murmurs, “She adores him,” he says with a fond smile. 

Stark makes a soft sound beside him and when he glances back over, he’s staring at Steve, a thoughtful look on his face, sadness and longing in his dark expressive eyes. The other man must feel his gaze because he tears his away from Steve and smiles sadly at Carlos, “They usually do,” he murmurs.

It’s an acknowledgement of something, though Carlos isn’t sure _ what _ —maybe that Stark has feelings for Steve, or that he knows how deeply Carlos himself feels about Steve, he just knows there’s heartbreak in the other man’s gaze and he’s suddenly very tired of these two idiots pining over each other. It hits him then, that this _ thing _ with Stark will never be something that Steve gets over, he’ll always belong to this man, even if he won’t admit it to himself. 

Love’s a _ bitch _, he decides, turning away to order something strong from the bar, swallowing it down in one go when it’s barely in his hand. 

“Yayo!”

He turns and finds Tina running up to him, grinning wide and bright and he has just a moment before she’s launching herself into his arms, excitedly chattering about Natasha and James. “Y tiene un cuchillo para mi!”

Steve walks up not long after and ruffles Tina’s hair with a soft smile, “Maybe you can come spend the day with us sweetie,” he murmurs, sharing a fond smile with Carlos before he turns his attention back to Tina, “Nat can show you how to use the knife safely and you can use my shield.”

Tina’s eyes go wide and she squirms violently in Carlos’s arms till he’s forced to release her so she can jump into Steve’s arms and pepper his face with kisses. “I love you tío Steve! Thank you, thank you,” she squeals, arms wound tight around Steve’s neck and it makes his chest ache to think that someday soon, she won’t be able to do this. 

He glances away and sees the pain on Stark’s face, raw and longing, and turns away, orders another drink. 

Steve murmurs something to Tina and by the time he turns around she’s staring wide eyed at Stark, fingers stroking the metal of her prosthetic arm like she does when she’s nervous. Stark smiles softly at her and steps closer, drink gone from his hand as he points to her arm, “That’s a very nice arm you have there kiddo,” he says softly, “bet you’re the strongest little girl in your class, huh?”

Tina glances up at Steve and then back to Stark, nodding as her smile grows, a little shyly, “I can throw the baseball further than all the boys,” she tells him conspiratorially, giggling when Stark puts on an awed expression and clasps a hand to his chest in shock. 

“Amazing! What else can you do?” he asks, grinning when she wiggles out of Steve’s arms. Carlos is amused to see the billionaire sink so easily to one knee to chat with his beloved nieta, her eyes bright and happy as they chat. 

Steve steps up beside him and Carlos slides a hand around his narrow waist before turning his chin up to get a kiss that Steve gives easily enough, though his cheeks are burnished pink with what Carlos thinks is probably embarrassment at the public display of affection. 

“Tío Steve, can we dance?” 

Steve grins down at Tina and offers her his hand with a flourishing bow, “Doll, it would be my honor,” he says with a glimmer in his eye as she giggles and takes it, tugging him away. He glances back, gaze darting between Carlos and Stark and for a mad moment Carlos thinks that maybe he’ll go after Steve and kiss him hard, just to see the look on Stark’s face twist, but he doesn’t, he waves and waits till they’re twirling around the floor to turn away and order another drink. 

Stark joins him and they drink silently for a time, the wash of chatter from the other patrons white noise to his ears. 

“He seems happy.”

Carlos laughs bitterly—he’s four—five?—drinks in at this point and should _ maybe _ stop, but it feels like they’re on a wheel, and it’s turning and he can’t stop it, so why not drink? It’s all going to break soon anyway. 

“Sure,” he agrees, “happy as a clam.”

There’s a long silence and he finally looks over to find Stark looking at him with this confused, worried expression and _ fuck it _, he’s just going to say it—

“He’s in love with someone else.”

Stark’s brows shoot up and he looks sharply over to where Steve is dancing with Tina, all carefree laughter and bright smiles. 

“Steve? Steve Rogers?” he demands incredulously, “there’s _ no _ way. He’s too honorable to stay with you if he’s in love with someone else.”

Carlos snorts and drains his whiskey, “He won’t admit it. Not to me, not to himself.”

The conversation is cut short when Steve and Tina return, faces pink, laughing and grinning. Steve lifts Tina onto the bar so she can sit between he and Tony, arm going around Carlos’s shoulders to tug him closer. “Tony, this is Carlos Jimenez, my boyfriend,” he says, smiling uncertainly at the other man. 

Stark smiles tightly, “We’ve been chatting. About you mostly,” he admits and for a worrying moment, Carlos thinks the other man is going to spill the truth. “All good things, don’t worry your pretty head,” he amends at the panicked look on Steve’s face. 

Steve laughs softly and nods, blushing prettily as he looks at Tony through his lashes, “That’s good. I-uh, thank you for coming Tony,” he murmurs softly, carefully. 

Carlos holds a hand out to Tina, “C’mon princesa, come dance with me,” he encourages, smiling when she hops down off the bar and races off to the dance floor without him. Shaking his head, he leans in and kisses Steve’s jaw, just below his ear, “Be back soon mi dulce putita,” he whispers, smirking when Steve inhales sharply. 

He nods to Stark and turns away, leaving his boyfriend with the man he loves.

* * *

_ Mi dulce putita _

The words were soft, almost too soft for him to hear, but hear them he did. 

Decades of Italian and Spanish and he knows _ exactly _what Carlos just called Steve and when he looks to Steve after the man is gone he’s shocked to see his cheeks pinked and his pupils blown, gaze hungry on the departing man. 

It’s like being smacked upside the head—the realization that Steve is...that he’s..._ fuck… _ heat burns in his cheeks as a dizzying array of images swirls through his mind, flashes of golden skin blushed pink and loud, desperate moans, and _ fucking Christ _ he shouldn’t be thinking about Steve like that, nope, _ definitely _ shouldn’t be thinking about _ that. _

The knowledge of that—that Steve’s aroused by dirty talk in public—it isn’t something he can just _ un _know, and it leaves him dazed and confused. 

He orders another drink and gulps it down, blood on fire with thoughts of...things he shouldn’t be thinking, imagining..._ Jesus _he needs another drink. 

Steve turns and smiles at him, shaky around the edges and Tony thinks for a moment that he’s not nearly drunk enough for this. 

“It’s good to see you,” Steve murmurs, stepping closer, cautious like he’s approaching a wild animal. 

Tony tries not to flinch and masters it mostly, smiling faintly up at the younger man. “I...thank you for inviting me,” he murmurs, tongue thick from alcohol and anxiety. Steve nods and leans against the bar, staring down at the shiny surface for a moment before he looks back up with a look so earnest it nearly breaks his heart. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, I know I let you down so many times Tony, and I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to try and make it better. I want to fix it.”

He nods and looks away from that too intense gaze, tension in his body stretching him taut, stomach fluttering and christ, he needs another drink. “I know you do Steve,” he murmurs, “It’s gonna take some time.”

“As long as you’re willing to give me a chance Tony, I swear I’ll wait for the rest of my life if that’s how long it takes.”

_ Christ _ ...he’s still so goddamn _ earnest _. He swallows more scotch and nods, unable to form a response in the face of something so heavy. He sees fingers creeping toward him in his periphery and stills, watching as they hesitate beside his wrist for a moment before connecting, the pointer finger sliding against his skin as the others wrap around the expensive silk of his suit. 

He finally looks up and meets a gaze so blue it feels like drowning. 

“I missed you,” Steve murmurs, and it’s like being punched in the gut. He exhales lowly and tries to breathe normally, but this is the first time they’ve touched in...Christ, almost three years. 

It’s odd how foreign Steve’s touch feels, odd that it _ is _foreign when it was something he had grown used to over years of friendship and camaraderie. 

Odd that he should crave it after fearing it; yearn for it when it had nearly killed him. 

He swallows hard and licks his lips clean of scotch, brain stumbling when Steve’s gaze shoots down to the action for a moment before coming back up to meet his gaze. 

His voice is low and raspy when he finally works the words out—

“I missed you too.”

And damn, he can’t pretend it’s not true—he _ has _ missed Steve, how easy it was between them. The hours spent in his lab while he worked and Steve went over reports or drew, the sparring sessions that always left him bruised but feeling accomplished, the late night dinners after a mission, sharing stories and beers. 

He’s _ missed _Steve, even when he was busy hating him or avoiding thinking about him, he was missing him. 

“There you are honey-bear!”

Tony’s eyes fall shut and he grins, inhaling slowly as the fingers around his wrist slip away before he opens his eyes and turns to greet Rhodey. 

“Platypus!”

* * *

Carlos and Steve are out on the dance floor and Tony is wandering the gallery, more drunk than not, when he turns a corner and stumbles to a halt. The walls are covered in art, obviously, but this art is of _ him _, him and the other Avengers. 

There’s Natasha, caught in a laugh, eyes sparkling and lips curled up while she punches Clint in the arm.

Rhodey and he, flying together in the night, rocketing into the sky between skyscrapers, armor hued in a myriad of colors from the never sleeping city’s vibrant lights. 

Bruce, in the lab, brow furrowed in concentration, glasses on his nose and Tony in the background working with his holographic display. 

James Barnes, younger and slimmer, grinning as he flips pancakes for a frightfully skinny Steve, feet bare against the ragged hardwood floor. 

And then, his stomach lurches because there is a whole series of comics titled “Super Moms” and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush that leaves him swaying, reaching out to lean against the wall, eyes burning and blurring. 

Steve must have found pictures of Maria because the art of her isn’t even a likeness, it just _ is _ her. Her bright smile and playful eyes from when she was young are all reflected in the drawings, and it steals his breath and makes his chest ache so badly he has to put a hand to it to make sure the damn ragged thing between his ribs keeps working. 

Sinking onto the bench in front of the comics, he stares up at them and wonders how he could have _ ever _thought Steve didn’t care about him. 

There’s a trio of paintings that take up one whole wall, enormous and vibrant with gold and red, a series of action shots; Iron Man flying the nuke into the wormhole, armor bright against the blue sky, him battling Thanos on Titan—and that one makes his side throb with remembered agony—the mad Titan looming large over his smaller figure, armor gone from his face, nearly stripped entirely away, and then last, is he and Captain America, fighting back to back against a horde of oncoming Hydra agents. 

“Mister Stark?”

He looks away and finds a little girl in front of him and it only takes a moment before he remembers her name. “Cristina,” he greets with a soft smile and a pat on the bench next to him. She grins and happily wiggles next to him, turning to face him so her legs are criss crossed under her dress and he has to repress a grin at how endearing she is. 

“Why do you look so sad Mister Stark?” she asks, frowning at him before leaning in and putting a small hand to his cheek, dark eyes warm and compassionate. 

His throat works hard and he feels tears burn in them, blinks rapidly to try and clear them. “I uh,” he coughs and takes a large sip of his scotch, barely feeling the burn anymore as it slides down his throat and warms him from the inside out. “I just miss the people we lost during the snap,” he murmurs—it’s true enough, and besides, he’s not sure he’s ready to articulate what he’s _ actually _ sad about to a seven year old. 

Cristina nods and her eyes go sad, “My mommy went,” she murmurs, chin wobbling and before he knows it, he has an armful of teary little girl and his own lashes are wet so he closes his eyes and just holds her and it’s oddly peaceful, healing almost. 

It’s a shared trauma, a shared grief. 

He rubs her back and eventually her tears slow and she pulls back slightly to rest her cheek against his chest, head tucked under his chin. They sit and stare at the paintings while the sounds of revelry filter in from the ballroom, distant like rain on the roof, and it’s oddly comforting. 

“My yayo says Tio Steve has mal de amores and that’s why he has sad eyes,” she murmurs suddenly, sitting back to stare at him curiously, “Is that what you have too?” she asks, lifting a hand to trace over his eyelids delicately, the question so innocent it makes his heart break. If it were anyone else he would think it was a jibe, meant to dig information out of him for an article on how Tony Stark is a heartbroken old man. 

He looks back at the pictures and nods slowly, “Yea, maybe.” 

She leans in and kisses his cheek and then hugs him around the neck, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too kiddo, me too.”

* * *

Steve isn’t drunk—not on alcohol anyway, but on the success of the evening. All of his Avengers artwork had been bought, and while the new owner wanted to remain anonymous, he’d found out that they had _ vastly _ overpaid to have them all and provided enough money to fund the organization for the next three years—construction costs included. 

They tuck Cristina into bed and he undresses slowly, dazed and floating on a haze of pleasure while Carlos undresses and changes for bed. He’s still in his trousers and bare feet, chest bare as he brushes his teeth and Steve leans in the doorway, watching him with a soft fond smile on his lips. 

Carlos’s gaze meets his in the mirror and it’s...distant? It breaks away as he leans down to spit and Steve can’t help the shiver of want that always goes through him when he sees the muscles of his back move. Stepping forward he slides his arms around Carlos’s waist and kisses his neck softly, humming at the familiar taste of his skin. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he murmurs earnestly, “it meant so much to me to have you and Tina there.” 

Carlos meets his gaze in the mirror and nods, smiling, but there’s something wrong with it, and it makes Steve’s gut twist. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, hands tightening on Carlos’s waist, reluctant to let go, fear that if he does, Carlos will walk away and leave him behind gnaws at his nerves. 

Carlos stares at him for a moment before softening and shaking his head, “We have to talk Steve,” he says and the floor drops out from under him, head dizzy with how fast the blood seems to drain from his face. 

He steps back, releasing the older man as his hands go numb, chest too tight to breathe normally. “W-what?” he stutters, “what did I do?” 

Carlos turns to face him, exhaustion in the lines between his brows, eyes heavy and sad. “Do you love me Steve?” he asks, “really? Do you want to be together for the rest of our lives? Have kids? Get married?” he continues and with each word, Steve feels the air in the room shrink till it feels like he can’t draw a steady breath. 

Steve stumbles back, a hand at his throat, panic strangling his chest. “I-I’m sorry,” he gasps. Carlos steps after him and grabs his chin, pulling his gaze down so they meet, grip strong and grounding. 

“Look at me Steve, you’re not in trouble, okay?” he demands, waiting till Steve nods slowly, unsure and panicked. “Okay, tell me, do you see those things in your future with me?” he asks, voice firm but still soft somehow, quiet, like he’s sad—his eyes are, Steve can see a depth of sorrow there that he’s never noticed before. 

He...he doesn’t know how to answer because he loves Carlos and he thought the older man knew that, but if he doesn’t Steve’s done a terrible job of showing it and he has to fix it, to make it better. 

“I love you,” he manages to gasp out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I messed up,” he whispers hoarsely, tears blurring his vision. “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles, wrenching away with a broken sound, arms wrapping around his waist as he starts to pace. 

“Christ,” he hears Carlos murmur and then there’s a hand on his arm, tugging and when he stops long enough to look at Carlos he can see the firm set to his jaw and the fingers on his arm tighten. “Steve, just _ stop _ and listen,” he orders, squeezing harder on his arm. 

He trembles in place, hands gripping tightly at his torso, breathing too shallow as he stands and waits for whatever Carlos has to say. 

The older man looks him over and then sighs, shaking his head, “Steve, you might love me, but it kills me 'cause I know you still love him—you’ve _ always _ been in love with him, and I know you always will be and it hurts to see you twisting yourself into knots thinking you aren’t good enough, that you have to atone for every sin before you’ll be good enough.”

Steve steps back, trembling harder, “I—w-what?” he gasps, fear and confusion rushing through his veins. He tastes copper on his tongue and thinks he must have bit it, but he can’t remember when. 

“Stark—you’re in love with him. And while you’re still holding onto him, you aren’t giving me a chance to really be your man. You’re holding onto your love for him even though it’s killing you and you have to let it go if you want me,” Carlos tells him, eyes pleading now, voice hoarse and god, _ god _ , he’s done this, he’s ruined what they had because he can’t stop trying to fix what he broke, can’t stop thinking of Tony—oh god, oh god, the _ letters _ , how could he have been so _ stupid? _

He’s breathing too fast, too loud, and it’s like he’s ninety pounds and asthmatic all over again, chest aching as he wheezes and drops to his knees, tears blurring his vision. 

_ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry _

Blood rushes in his ears and he gasps, tears on his cheeks as he shakes apart, sobbing and gasping and he thinks he’ll be sick from the force of his sobs. He’s such a fool, to think that he could be good at this, at being good for Carlos, at being able to love without hurting anyone. 

He’d loved Bucky and gotten him killed.

He’d loved Peggy and abandoned her. 

He loved Tony and had nearly killed him, betrayed him, _ broken _ him. 

He’d _ tried _ to love Carlos and had ruined it, hadn’t been good enough, would _ never _ be good enough. 

“Steve?”

“_ Steve _.”

“Steve, look at me right now.”

The command in the words isn’t something he can ignore, not anymore. He shakes and sobs, but lifts his head to peer through bleary eyes at Carlos, lips wet and parted around his rasping sobs. He’s still saying _ I’m sorry _, unable to form any other words, unable to think of anything else he could say to try and fix this. 

There’s grief in Carlos’s eyes and it’s like a knife to the gut, because it’s his fault. 

He can’t do _ anything _ right. 

“Steve, you’re going to sit up and take deep breaths, do you understand me?” Carlos demands, and the implication is clear—_ do as I say or I’ll make you _. 

He nods unsteadily and rises up to sit back on his heels, still shaking, trying desperately to breathe normally—Carlos told him and he does what Carlos says, so he needs to be good and get this one things, just this one fucking thing _ right _. 

Carlos watches him and then shifts like he’s going to move and Steve has to fight his reaction to reach out and stop him, but it must be evident, because Carlos touches his cheek gently and smiles, though his eyes are still sad. “I’m just getting you water baby, hold on.”

Steve nods and sniffles, hands trembling against his thighs, heart racing too fast and lungs aching as he cries, slower now. Carlos is back moments later, holding a bottle of water up to his lips for him to sip from and it takes a few tries in which he manages to spill some down the front of his dress shirt even with the help and he struggles _ so hard _ just to breathe, to swallow and he hates it, hates himself. 

Carlos makes him drink the whole bottle and by the time he’s done the shakes have slowed and his breathing has reached a more even keel. The older man rises and wets a cloth, wipes his face gently and then sits on the bed in front of him with a heavy sigh, shoulders slumped. 

He stares at Steve for a moment and then shakes his head, smiling sadly. “This didn’t go the way I hoped,” he admits, “you deserve to be with someone you can give your whole heart to Steve, and that’s not me.” 

Steve trembles but doesn’t know what to say other than _ I’m sorry _ and _ don’t go _. 

Carlos laughs softly, but it isn’t a happy laugh, and the tears in his eyes make Steve want to cry again. He’s done this, he’s ruined them—just like he ruined things with Tony. 

Carlos wipes a hand over his face and takes a deeply unsteady breath, eyes closed for a long moment before he opens them and looks at Steve, gaze sorrowful. “I’ll wake Tina and take her back to my place,” he murmurs, looking away from Steve—_ he can’t even stand to look at you _ his venomous mind hisses, _ you’ve failed, _ ** _again_ **—and Steve lurches, grabs Carlos’s hand with a hitching gasp of his name, desperation filling his chest. 

“Please, please don’t,” he begs, tears in his eyes once more, Carlos’s hand clutched against his chest, “Please, I’ll be better, I promise,” he half sobs, “please, I love you.” His chest quakes as he cries once more, breathless and moments from splitting apart from the ache in his chest. 

Carlos breaks, tears streaming down his face as he cries and shakes his head, wraps a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him up, presses their foreheads together, “Baby, no,” he whispers, voice raw and low, “you deserve to be happy and so do I. I-I can’t be _ him _,” he says, voice cracking at the end and Steve shudders, sobs, clutches at him, nails scraping his skin, desperate to hold on. 

They cry, holding onto each other, hands too tight and tears mingling when Steve kisses Carlos desperately, sobbing when the older man cups his neck so gently it makes him want to shatter apart. It grows deeper and heated, desperate, as if this is the last thing they’ll do—and it is. 

Carlos pushes him away and stands up, wiping his hand over his mouth, tears on his cheeks as he stands in place, trembling. 

Steve falls back onto his ass with a heavy thump, all the life drained from his limbs. He stays there while Carlos dresses, gathers his keys in one hand and his tie in the other. 

“I’ll get Tina and be back while you’re at group tomorrow to get my stuff,” Carlos murmurs, sniffling wetly, half turned away from Steve, voice low and raspy. 

Steve doesn’t have the strength to stop him—and isn’t _ that _ the cruelest irony—he’s the strongest man alive, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop this, anything he does just seems to make it worse. He can knock out Hydra and Chitauri and Norse gods— _ I can do this all day— _ but he can’t do this _ one _ simple thing and it’s enough to make him ache, the knowledge that he’s still no better than he was when he was a little shrimp of a guy. 

Carlos pauses at the door and glances back, eyes dry but grief stricken. 

“Forgive yourself Steve,” he murmurs with a tiny ghost of a smile, “you’re only human.” 

The door closes and Steve listens as he rouses Tina and flinches when the front door closes in the distance. The apartment is quiet, and it’s suddenly filled with emptiness; there’s no one here but him and his failures. 

With a wounded sound, he slumps to the ground in slow motion, falling apart with each raw, sobbing breath he takes, vision blurring as he lets go and sinks into the yawning chasm of grief that’s been waiting. 

It’s always been there, a shadow in the corners of his mind, waiting for him to acknowledge his demons instead of running from them, using battle and blood and righteous fury to keep them at bay. 

_ Pretending you could live without a war. _

He has nothing left now. 

Nothing but the shadows in his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thanks to my girl Tina for helping me with the concept of "mal de amores". I came to her asking for something that could accurately convey heartbreak and love sickness, and she blessed me with this gorgeous line that is perhaps one of my favorite things in this story. 
> 
> Because I know people are conflicted over Carlos, I'm going to share some of my thought process on this chapter to help illuminate his character's decisions/thoughts. Carlos absolutely loves Steve--but he's smart enough to see that Steve has been pining over--and continues to pine over--Tony for years. He sees that Steve can't or won't let that love go, even though it's hurting him right now, and because of that, Steve can't REALLY love Carlos the way he deserves, and he can't really BE loved by Carlos like he deserves. So, while he's jealous of Tony, he just wants Steve to be happy, even if it's not with him. When he calls Steve "mi dulce putita" at the gala, he genuinely doesn't think that Tony can hear; he's calling Steve that because he enjoys the way he reacts to the phrase, and he's possessive enough in the face of the man who Steve is in love with, to want to remind Steve that he is Carlos's--for the time being. 
> 
> I think the thing I want people to take away from this story is that the characters are human--they fuck up, they hurt each other, they make bad decisions, and at the end of the day, they have to live with the consequences of being human. Life isn't always easy or simple, and that's something I've tried to highlight here, and I hope it's something that you all have enjoyed so far. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support, I look forward to your comments!! 
> 
> P.S. I do also have little one shots of scenes that didn't make it into the full story to be posted in this series--but I am interested to see if anyone has scenes they'd be interested in seeing! There will definitely be more letters that didn't make it into the story, scenes with Nat and Rhodey, and some post-story scenes of Steve and Tony and their life together. So if you have anything you want to see, let me know in the comments!!
> 
> I saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
😭 = I got you right in the feels  
🔥 = this was so hot!  
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


	4. Year Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve discovers that sometimes our burdens are too great to bear alone, and that it's ok to ask for help. Tony realizes that he's been holding himself back from the thing he wants the most--and he's ready to fight for it. First dates, first kisses, and falling in love.

“Sir?”

Tony looks up from where he’s welding a cracked oil pipeline a thousand feet under the surface of the Gulf to see FRIDAY flashing an alert on his heads up monitor. 

“What is it?” he demands, turning his attention back to the break—it had ruptured a day ago and had already spilled a million gallons of crude into waters that had seen far too many disasters already. 

“The Captain appears to be in imminent danger of lethal injury sir. Commence Save Captain Dumbass Protocol?”

_ Damn, _ he really needs a catchier title for that. 

“Time to finish weld?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Time to New York at top speed?”

“22 minutes and 4 seconds sir at top speed.”

The weld completes and he shoots to the surface with a splash.

“Push it FRI.”

“Yes sir.”

* * *

Steve isn’t sure how many there are, he lost count around two blows to the head ago. He’d gotten word from a street contact that a group had formed a militia of sorts that would roam the streets and demand payment from the store owners and families in Brooklyn for keeping them safe—or so they said.

Most people didn’t have much to begin with, and what little they had they didn’t want to give to men who were violent and cruel. When Steve had heard of young women and men being taken as payment he couldn’t stand by and wait for Natasha or Rhodey to be available. 

He wore black jeans and a black Under Armor shirt, combat boots and had greased his hair to dye it black till he no longer recognized himself and then went out to find trouble. 

He thinks now that perhaps he’s found a little _ too _ much trouble and in the back of his head he can hear Bucky’s ghostly voice calling him a punk fondly, and it makes him smile bizarrely through the blood in his teeth and the ache in his jaw from the boot he’d taken to the face. 

Fists and feet batter him where he lies prone on the ground and he’s tempted, _ so _tempted, to just lay there and take it, to see how long it would take for them to shatter him apart piece by piece. The idea that there are other men like this out there and that they’ll be free to keep on hurting people is what finally propels him up off the ground, dirt and grit grinding into his skin, matting the blood on his face into a sticky mess. 

He pants for breath, that little guy inside him roaring to the surface as the men laugh and grip their crude weapons more firmly. 

“I could do this all day,” he grits out, spits blood onto the ground in front of him and then launches into movement. 

He doesn’t hold back, lets the anger and hurt well within him as he crushes men’s skulls against the metal pylons and smashes ribs with his boots. They drop, one by one, till there’s only three left, and he sees that one of them managed to grab a gun from somewhere and while that’s troubling, it’s not likely that he’ll wind up dead…

Maybe. 

The man with the gun lifts it and he can see in a split second that he’s aiming at Steve’s skull and he lunges, rolls to the side as the bullet cracks into the concrete wall behind him, mere breaths from taking his life. 

He hears a familiar sound and waits till the men start shouting in panic before he runs out from behind the concrete pillar he’d taken refuge behind and sprints across the room to take down one of the men. He feels his knuckles crack under the force of his punch and just adds it to the mental tally of his injuries, adrenaline burning away the pain for the moment. 

Repulsors fire again and the room suddenly goes deathly quiet—he looks around and realizes a good half of the men are either dead or dying. The realization is a knife to the gut, sliding in alongside the _ actual _ knife wound he has and he fights the revulsion crawling up his spine, stomach lurching unpleasantly. 

He doesn’t revel in the lives he’s taken, and while he might not see their faces in his sleep, he does carry the weight of those deaths on his soul. 

The Iron Man suit is bright, shining like dragon scales in the dim light of the shitty warehouse they’re standing in, eyes in the faceplate glowing a familiar blue-white. It’s silent and still for a moment and then the faceplate peels back smoothly and Tony’s scowling face is revealed. 

“What the _ fuck _ Rogers?” he demands angrily, waving a hand at the bodies littering the floor. “You decided to go up against the whole fucking Brooklyn Boys Militia?” He scoffs, brows furrowing, “are you fucking _ crazy _?”

Steve shakes his head, more to try and clear the buzzing sound from it than to answer, but Tony doesn’t know that and scoffs again, wiping a gauntleted hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room once more. “Christ Steve...what the _ hell _ happened?” he asks, voice softer this time. 

Maybe it’s that—the softness—that finally knocks him from his feet (it’s probably blood loss), but he’s suddenly falling, knees smashing into the concrete as everything goes grey and hazy around the edges. 

“Shit! Steve!”

Hands grasp his arms and he pushes away, breathing oddly, too shallow, like he’s drowning, and he can see the confusion in Tony’s eyes as he pushes the man away. “D-don’t,” he murmurs around a mouthful of blood, chokes and then spits it out, head too light to stay on his shoulders, feels like it’ll just float away…

“Steve…”

Tony sounds pained, like Steve is hurting him, and gee, what a surprise, he’s managed to fuck this up too. He makes a scoffing laughing sound, garbled in his throat by the sudden rush of tears threatening him and he glares up at Tony, angry with him for coming, for giving a shit about Steve at all. 

“Just go...go…” he pants, “leave me.”

Tony’s brows furrow together and he stares at Steve for a long moment and then shakes his head, mouth moueing. “FRIDAY Lights Out Protocol,” he murmurs and grasps Steve by the neck and there’s a moment where Steve thinks maybe he’ll snap it, and then there’s a hiss of something hydraulic and needles so fine they barely pinch slide into his skin. 

There’s a cool rush under his skin and within three ragged inhales his already heavy lids are sliding closed, too heavy to stay open any longer. He slumps and feels strong arms catch him, lift him, and he feels weightless, drifting along in the black, pain gnawing in around the edges like a hungry wolf ready to devour him. 

His nose brushes skin and he inhales weakly, so tired, so ready to just give up. 

Amber

Vetiver

Mahogany 

_ Tony _

(_ Home) _

* * *

Tony’s shaken and on edge, drowning himself in drink and work three days after Steve’s little reckless escapade, and when he has one (six) too many drinks and Karen has to fish his head out of the toilet to keep him from aspirating on his own vomit, he’s forced to admit this _ might _ not be the healthiest coping mechanism. 

She shoves him in the shower and turns it on to an icy blast, lets him shiver and curse for a few minutes before she switches it to hot and stands to watch him—_ I’m making sure you don’t drown _ she snaps when he tries to convince her to leave. 

When he’s done, she tosses dry clothes onto the counter and glares at him—_ get dressed so I can yell at you _ she hisses, turning on a well shod heel and slamming the door behind her. 

It reminds him of Pepper, of their early years working together when he was a hot mess—sleeping with anything that moved, drinking scotch for breakfast and bumping coke for lunch and dinner. 

Shuddering, he peels off his wet clothes and towels off, slips gratefully into the sweats and worn cat T-shirt Karen had picked for him. He’s already sufficiently cowed when he walks out into his bedroom, but the look on Karen’s face is enough to have him swallowing down an ocean of guilt. 

“What in the _ fuck _ is going on?” she demands, hands on her narrow hips, red rings in her eyes, lips pressed together in a white line. 

He swallows hard and opens his mouth to answer when she lifts a hand in a sharp movement that has him flinching, “You know what, scratch that, because I _ know _ what’s happening,” she murmurs, scowling as she takes a large step forward, “you and Steve need to figure your shit out once and for all. If you love him you can’t keep pushing him away, you have to forgive him or forget him. It’s killing you both to keep going on like this.”

His heart races with every word she spits at him, her bright eyes shining with unshed tears. Her breath catches and she presses her knuckles to her mouth, lips quivering for a moment as she struggles for control. 

He steps forward without thought and offers open arms to her, breathes a huge sigh of relief when she steps in and clings to him. Her hands fist in his shirt and the material at his shoulder grows wet with her tears and it guts him—she’s not just an assistant, she’s his best friend—sometimes it feels like she’s his only friend. 

“Goddamn it Tony, don’t you dare give up,” she whispers wetly, “I refuse to see another person I love fade to ash in front of me.”

It’s like a knife, right between his ribs, sinking deep into where he’s most vulnerable, into the soft spaces where she’s wormed her way past his armor. He’d forgotten what it felt like—to let someone in without realizing it, to love them and have them hurt you because they love you. 

He needs better armor. 

* * *

He goes to see his therapist, shaken and on edge, hands jittery from too much coffee and not enough sleep and she sits quietly, watching him, eyes shrewd behind her tortoise shell glasses. He _ knows _it’s a technique to get him to talk—remain silent till the urge to have it filled pushes the words out. 

He knows it and he tries to fight it all the same. 

The silence persists for fifteen minutes before he breaks and shifts on the couch, looks away and says nonchalantly, “I’m thinking of moving SI operations back to Malibu.”

She hums softly and nods, “And what are you running from this time Tony?” 

He’s proud of the way he’s able to hold still and not react—the only giveaway that her words have struck home is the flinch in his fingers that he easily turns into a careless flick against his trousers—brushing away non existent lint. 

(It’s a ten thousand dollar suit—it doesn’t _ get _ lint)

He’s not running—_ he’s not _—he tries to assure himself. 

“I’ve done everything I can for the east coast,” he tells her, finally looking up and making eye contact. “The west is struggling—radiation from Fukushima and wild fires raging—they need my technology.” 

She lifts a brow, “And why does that mean you have to shift your headquarters to Malibu? Why not expand on the location you have there and spend a few weeks with your teams getting it up and running?” 

He smiles brightly, his show smile, “Because doc, I _ want _to move it there and I get what I want.”

She studies him for a moment and then sighs, sets aside her notepad and turns her too bright, too insightful gaze onto him fully and he fights the urge to squirm. 

“Tony, if you have a legitimate reason for wanting to move your headquarters, I’d love to hear it,” she tells him, “but I think we both know you don’t. You’re running from something—_ someone _,” she amends and his stomach flips unpleasantly. “You and I both know this behavior is a pattern for you—you push people away so they can’t be the first to leave and disappoint you. So who is it this time?” 

She’s leaning forward, bright eyes sharp and assessing and he swallows hard, smile faded and weak as each second ticks by in uncomfortable silence. 

The words pile up behind his teeth till he’s choking on them and he has to either let them fall free or force them back down his throat. He fidgets, looking away from her, tugging at the fabric of his sleeves, straightening them and fiddling with the cuffs before he clears his throat and manages to let some words slide free. 

“It’s Steve,” he admits haltingly, “Rogers. He’s uh, we’ve been, _ shit,” _he curses, wiping a shaking hand over his face. 

“Take your time.”

He nods and inhales unevenly, counts to ten and then tries again. 

“We’ve been exchanging letters for the past three and a half years,” he tells her, watches her brows rise in surprise. She nods and he continues, “It was...bad, at first. I hated him, for what he did to the team, for what he did to me, and I kept pushing him away,” he tells her. 

“I’m pretty sure he almost died because of something I said to him,” he whispers, the words like acid on his tongue and he feels sick just saying them. 

“How do you mean?”

_ You dug your grave Rogers, now you get to lie in it. _

_ I can’t believe I ever trusted you _

_ You’re a liar and a coward and a _ ** _villain_ ** _ ; you didn’t save _ ** _shit_ **

He...he _ can’t _ tell her those things, even thinking them feels wrong now. _ God _ he’d hurt Steve _ so _badly, lashing out like a wounded animal, trying to inflict as much damage as had been done to him. 

“Tony, can you take some deep breaths for me?” 

His chest hurts and he realizes distantly he’s hyperventilating, and then there are cool fingers on his face and warm hazel eyes smiling at him. “There you are; now, I need you to breathe deep and slow, okay?” 

He manages a nod and Doctor Naveed smiles encouragingly, “Good, deep breaths, in for a count of four, hold for three and out for a count of four.” 

She talks him through it till his breathing slows and his chest doesn’t hurt so much and when he opens his eyes and again he finds that they’re sitting in the corner of the office with their backs to the bookshelves. 

It’s an old habit from childhood—always keep the door in sight so he could find the exit—Howard wasn’t quick enough to stop him most days, too drunk, too slow—but the days he was sober (ish) and feeling meaner than a raging bull, he’d trap Tony in a room and berate him, slap him around and make him cry, make him bleed. 

Tony would try to keep his back to the wall so there was less surface area for Howard to hit, but that just left his soft belly and face as easy targets. He curls in on himself now, instinctive, trying to protect himself, and flinches when Dr. Naveed shifts to sit across from him. 

She slides a glass of water over to him and nods encouragingly, watching him as he sips it slowly, stomach still threatening to crawl out of his throat. He breathes slow and steady till the cool sweat on the back of his neck has dried, tacky and unpleasant. 

“Now, Tony, you told me you and Steve were exchanging letters, can you tell me more about them?”

He looks up and finds her warm smile focused on him and shudders at how comforting it is—sips his water again and then nods, clears his throat and begins at the beginning. 

He talks for hours—and Dr. Naveed clears her schedule after the first hour—telling her how he and Steve met, how they grew to be friends, how everything slowly fell apart, and how they’ve started to come back together.

He’s exhausted by the end, wrung dry and limp, shaking a little with caffeine withdrawal (and probably alcohol too) and all he wants now is a hot shower and a nap. 

Dr. Naveed hands him another glass of water and smiles, “We’re almost done I think,” she murmurs, “but I have one last question for you.”

Tony nods tiredly and scrubs a hand over his face, “Shoot Doc,” he rasps out, smiling wearily at her through his fingers. 

“Did you ever tell Steve that you loved him?”

And just like that the world rips out from under his feet.

* * *

“Tío Steve!!”

Steve grins at the shriek from Tina and crouches, wincing as his still healing side protests. It takes his breath away when she slams into him, tiny arms thrown around his neck, but it’s worth it to feel her in his arms again, to smell the familiar scent of her hair, to hear her whisper his name so lovingly. 

He closes his eyes and holds her, tucks his face into the crook of her neck and fights the tears that have swum to the surface so quickly it leaves him breathless. After a long few moments, he stands and holds her close, smiling cautiously at Carlos where he’s standing by the playground, watching them carefully. 

He’d agreed to meet with Steve because Tina had been nearly inconsolable at the thought that her tío Steve wasn’t going to be around anymore. Carlos looks good, Steve thinks, though it’s only been a week since they broke up. He’s painfully aware of his fading black eye and still healing ribs and knee—he knows he must look a lot like he did when they first met. 

Carlos’s gaze flits over him and his mouth tightens before he visibly forces himself to relax and step over. He smiles politely at Steve and nods, “You’re looking...well,” he murmurs lamely, and they both know it’s a lie, but for Tina’s sake, they won’t address it past this. 

“Yea, had a run in with bad guys,” he says with a faint smile, brightening it when Tina looks at him in concern. “I’m okay, I promise,” he assures her, smiling when she leans in and kisses his bruise gently. 

She’s squirming to get down soon enough, taking his hand to lead him toward the swings, Carlos trailing along behind. They can’t really talk, but it’s ok because Tina chatters on excitedly, telling Steve all about the week of school she’s had, about the movie she and yayo saw together about a princess who sails across the ocean to save her island, about the squirrel she’s named Henrico after her uncle with big teeth and he can’t help but smile as she talks animatedly, hands waving and grin bright. 

Steve walks them back to their car, the tiny but solid weight of Tina fast asleep in his arms. He’s careful transferring her into her car seat, but she still rouses and cries, demands to see him again soon, and he’s unable to pry her loose till he agrees that they’ll see each other again. 

Carlos eyes him again, gaze lingering on the bruises, opens his mouth to ask something and then shakes his head, smiling bitterly, “Not my job to yell at you for getting hurt,” he murmurs, eyes sad, “but do me a favor?” 

Steve nods and Carlos smiles faintly, “Take better care of yourself.”

Steve nods but says nothing, waves when they pull away, stands at the curb and watches till they’ve disappeared into the flow of New York traffic. 

He fingers the braided bracelet Tina had made, the red, blue and white threads intertwined with gold, a small shield hanging from the clasp, and beside it a tiny arc reactor. 

“He’s your best friend,” she had insisted, “I made one for him too!” she had told him before helping him secure his around his wrist and then giving him the matching one. He hasn’t seen Tony since the night he rescued him from the militia—he’d woken in a private hospital and been discharged a few days later without ever seeing Tony. 

Now though, he has a reason to go see Tony, and he’s...nervous.

What if Tony doesn’t want to see him?

He runs his thumb over the arc reactor and stiffens his shoulders.

There’s only one way to find out if what he’s broken can be repaired. 

* * *

_ “Did you ever tell Steve you loved him?” _

_ He panics, stares wide eyed at her, tongue heavy in his mouth, brain as blank as a broken tv screen. _

_ Dr. Naveed smiles softly, “Did you _ ** _know_ ** _ you loved him?” _

_ His mouth gapes open like a fish and he hastily closes it, swallows hard and then shakes his head weakly. “I…I knew, but…” he laughs bitterly, “I didn’t ever think I was good enough for Captain America.” _

_ She hums and tilts her head, “And what about Steve Rogers? Are you good enough for him?” _

* * *

“Mr. Stark?”

He looks up at the call of his name and smiles tiredly when he sees Karen in the doorway of the workshop, lean frame wrapped in narrow black trousers and a sweater that matches her eyes, her gaze soft on him, lips curling into a half smile. 

“Miss Page?” he teases back, pushing off against the floor so his rolly chair slides toward her. 

She grins and steps forward, “You have a visitor,” she tells him softly, brow furrowing slightly and he immediately knows who it is. “It’s Steve Rogers,” she explains, hesitating for a moment, “I can tell him to leave if you like.”

He smiles crookedly, thinking that if there was anyone in the world who could kick both he and Steve’s ass without ever lifting a finger it would be Karen Page. “That’s ok Karen, send him in,” he murmurs, running a hand over his hair as she nods and steps away, disappearing out the first set of lab doors. 

He’s been down here for—_ shit _, he winces—twelve hours, so he takes a moment to roll over to his desk and grab some mints before he has to interact with an actual human being for longer than thirty seconds. 

The doors swish open and he hears footsteps before he turns and finds Steve standing in the middle of his lab, a stack of pizza boxes propped against his hip and a six pack in the other hand. He has a hesitant smile on his face and a bruise still fading on his left eye and he’s still so good looking it takes Tony’s breath away. 

“Dinner?” Steve asks, hopeful smile widening a little, eyes a little sad and he thinks of what the little girl said; _ Tio Steve has mal de amores and that’s why he has sad eyes. _

Nodding slowly, he smiles softly, “Yea, dinner sounds good,” he agrees. 

Steve smiles so brightly it’s like the sun and Tony feels his tired heart skip a beat. 

* * *

_ “And what about Steve Rogers? Are you good enough for him?” _

_ He hesitates, words caught in his throat, and then jerks his head, side to side, “I uh, I hurt him...badly,” he whispers. _

_ “It sounds like he hurt you too. Nearly killed you, from what you said.” _

_ He nods, stares at the Berber carpet fibers, scratches his nails into them to hear them rasp. _

_ “So, I guess the question isn’t just _ ** _do you think you’re good enough_ ** _ , but rather, _ ** _do you think you’re going to be able to trust him again?_ ** _ ” _

* * *

Tony is lost in his work, giving Steve the time to wander through the workshop to see what it is the older man has been working on. 

Steve climbs the stairs out of the main center where Tony does most of his diagnostic and digital work and starts back the hall toward where he knows the old versions of the suit are stored. 

After everything with Extremis, Steve knew that Tony had destroyed his suits as an act of love for Pepper, but when he turns into the room, he’s surprised to see so many still exist. 

His attention however, quickly turns from the suits, to the art on the walls. 

_ His _art. 

The art that an anonymous buyer had purchased during the Gala.

It’s all here. 

Heart pounding in his ears, he steps forward and reaches out a shaking hand to the triptych of Iron Man fighting various villains, shaking fingers connecting with the canvas containing he and Tony fighting together against Hydra. 

He walks slowly around the room, throat too tight and tears burning in his eyes, looking at everything he’d created, hung here in a place of honor, right beside the suits that had kept Tony alive for so many years. 

He wonders where the comics he drew of their mothers are because he doesn’t see them here with the rest of the collection. 

“I uh, hope you don’t mind I bought all your art.”

Steve turns and finds Tony staring at him, looking nervous, hand shoved into his jeans pockets, brow furrowed as he studies Steve for his reaction.

“No! Of course I don’t mind,” Steve hurries to assure him, stepping forward eagerly. “God Tony, I just can’t understand why you’d pay so much money for them,” he murmurs with a self deprecating laugh, “I’m no Monet.”

Tony frowns and shakes his head, “No you’re not, you’re far more talented than that,” he retorts, and the fierceness with which it’s said warms something in Steve’s chest. 

“Well, thank you,” he murmurs, cheeks hot with shy pleasure at the kind words. He looks at Tony through his lashes and wishes for a moment that things were different so he could kiss the man and show him how he feels. 

But they aren’t and he can’t, so he averts his gaze and swallows hard against the lump in his throat. 

It’s quiet for a few moments before he looks back up, a thought occurring to him again; “Where are the comics of our moms?” he asks curiously. 

Tony hesitates and then waves a hand, “C’mon I’ll show you,” he says, casting a small smile at Steve as they turn the corner and head back to the main work area. 

Steve looks around in confusion and Tony smirks a little at him and then waves a hand, “FRI, show me mom,” he calls out and a moment later sheets of glass are lowering from the ceiling and the lights are shifting to something warmer, cozier and more intimate. 

Steve watches in awe as they lower to eye height and he can see that all the artwork he’d done of their mothers is laid out in chronological order—including the ones he’d sent to Tony. 

For some reason, seeing it all laid out like this—like it’s precious and meant to be viewed by just he and Tony—it humbles him and takes his breath away. 

He pressed a shaking hand to his lips and moves forward to look at them closer—Tony a shadow at his side. 

“I never told you what these meant to me,” Tony murmurs. “My mother was my hero—the only person outside of Jarvis that showed me love without reservation. The way you’ve captured her is the way she deserves to be remembered—because she was a hero too.” 

Steve turns to face Tony, unashamed of the tears that have fallen on his cheeks and reaches out hesitantly, waiting a beat to see if Tony will pull away, and when he doesn’t, grips his wrist gently. 

“She raised a hero,” Steve whispers, voice low and hoarse, “I think we all owe her a debt of gratitude.” 

Tony ducks his head and shakes it in rebuttal, and Steve can see his throat working hard, so he dares to step a little closer, squeezing Tony’s wrist to draw his gaze back up. 

“You always have been and always will be _ my _ hero,” Steve tells him in a voice laced with too much emotion and thick with unshed tears. 

Tony’s shoulders heave and he murmurs something Steve can’t understand, voice too low and raw for Steve to grasp the words before he nods and wipes at his face. 

They stand together, there in the shadows of their mothers, and they aren’t heroes or billionaire playboy philanthropists, they are simply two men, battered and broken and bruised who miss their mothers and ache for love. 

* * *

**[UNSENT]**

_ Tony, _

_ My therapist says I should use these letters to be more honest with you, so I thought I’d tell you that I love you— _

**[UNSENT]**

_ Tony, _

_ I’ve been seeing a therapist and she gave me advice to use these letters to be honest with you. That’ll be a first, huh? _

**[UNSENT]**

_ Tony, _

_ I’m supposed to be honest with you in these letters, so here goes; I’m sorry. I hurt you and shattered the trust you had in me and I’ll never be able to change what I did. _

* * *

_ Tony, _

_ I’ve been seeing a therapist for the past few weeks and she recommended that I use these letters to be honest with you—and myself. So here are three true things. _

  * __I miss you. I miss the friendship we had and I don’t know if we’ll ever get it back. I’m scared that I’ve destroyed the one good thing I had in this life—you. I miss spending time with you in the lab and playing fetch with Dum-E...I just, I miss you Tony. __
  * _I kissed a man for the first time when I was in France, hunting Hydra. His name was Arthur and he smelled like lilacs—we kissed and kissed and kissed in a field of them until all I could smell for days was lilacs. I….I’ve never told that to anyone before, not even Bucky or Peggy. _
  * _My favorite memory of you is from that time we went to China right after the battle of New York and you took me to this tiny village to eat, outside the city because you knew I felt out of place. You talked with the family and made jokes and when we left you told me that you were glad I was there because you didn’t normally get the chance to just be _**_Tony_**_ and not Tony Stark. That was the first time I realized how much the public eye affected you—I had never seen you smile like that. _

_ I hope I get to see you again soon, I loved having dinner together—thank you for showing me the project you’ve been working on, I didn’t think it was possible to be more in awe of you, but then you do something new and I'm caught flat footed. You’re an incredible man Tony, and I was lucky to be counted as one of your friends. _

_ I hope someday you can trust me again, that I haven’t destroyed any hope of us ever being friends again. _

_ Yours, _

_ Steve _

  
  


_ Steve, _

_ Congrats on finding someone to help you—I relied on myself for too many years and it took its toll. Well, if you’re going to be honest, I probably should be too, huh? _

  * __Rhodey saved my life when I was 17. My parents had just died and I drank too much and took my mother’s pills and I fell asleep and if he hadn’t found me, I would have died. I literally owe that man my life, more than a few times over. You and he should compare notes and see who has more saves on the books, I’ll make you a trophy—_**_Shiniest White Knight _**_
  * _I was seven when my dad gave me my first drink—told me Starks were made of iron, so drink up boy! I think sometimes I’m too much like him—stubborn, cruel, a drunk. _
  * _I miss you too Steve. I’ve missed you for longer than I wanted to admit to myself because if I did, then that meant I was forgiving you, and I couldn’t forgive you when my chest was still cracked open and hurting worse than it had even when Obadiah betrayed me. _

_ We both know it was Loki’s scepter messing with us when we first met, and yea, I was disappointed with the man my father had compared me to my whole life, but it wasn’t all on you. I get a little blame there too. I wanted you to be the man from all my father’s stories, from the comics and movies I had seen—be the man I idolized and had a teenage crush on, because I wanted to be just like you Steve—I wanted to be someone my father could be _ ** _proud_ ** _ of. _

_ Christ _

_ Guess I’m telling you everything huh? _

_ I get why you didn’t come to me when you found out about my parents. I get why you were scared. _

_ I just wish you had trusted me more. _

_ I don’t know what to tell you Steve. I trusted the man you were, the friend who went to car shows with me, sketched while I worked in the lab, knew how to make me laugh and played with Dum-E, but I don’t know if that’s still the man you are. _

_ I don’t know if I trust the you that you are now, and I don’t know how to fix that. _

_ Maybe there is no fixing it. _

_ Christ, what do I know? _

_ Just...give it time. Give _ ** _me_ ** _ time, _ ** _us_ ** _ , and we’ll figure it out together, one day at a time. _

_ Yours, _

_ Tony _

* * *

Steve stares at the words, reading them over and over again—_ had a teenage crush on— _and it feels like something is stuck in his chest, huge and heavy and he shivers a little, wondering if maybe he had missed something, if maybe Tony had been even a little interested in him and he had just been too stupid to realize it. 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He wasn’t stupid, _ isn’t _ stupid—he’d just been listening to the worst thoughts his brain had to offer for so many years that he thinks even if Tony _ had _ grabbed him back when they were friends and kissed him he wouldn’t have believed the man _ actually _ wanted him. 

He reads the letter over again, lingering on Tony’s words that it would take time—to heal them both, to learn to trust again, to be friends. Steve knows without hesitation that he’ll take just friendship with Tony any day over not having him at all. 

It pains him to think of losing Tony, but then, Tony was never his to _ lose _ , not like _ that _ anyway. 

He sets aside the letter and stares out the window of his apartment and watches the early spring rain lash against the windows, running in streaks down the glass. His fingers tap restlessly against the table for long minutes before he turns and grabs his journal and opens to a fresh page. 

_ Tony isn’t mine. We were only friends and even though I felt more than that for him, it’s still not healthy to hope for more right now. I need to focus on healing myself and repairing our friendship as best as I can. _

_ Tony isn’t mine. _

_ But maybe someday I can tell him how I feel. _

* * *

Tony fingers the fabric around his wrist, smiling faintly as the charms on it clack together. Steve had been bashful when he handed it over with an explanation that it came from Tina, head ducked to look up at Tony through his lashes, cheeks flushed pink. The hope in his sea glass eyes made Tony’s heart clench, and the way his full lips curled up, it drove him to distraction. 

It’s _ ridiculous _ , really. Tony’s been caught daydreaming about Steve Roger’s mouth more than a few times in the past few months, and it’s only getting worse with each dinner and lunch and coffee meeting ( _ date??) _ they share. They’re taking it slow, talking and writing letters, and piece by piece he feels like he knows Steve better. 

It’s hard; sharing pieces of himself. 

Opening up. 

Trusting. 

_ God _ the last person he’d opened up to like this had been Pepper. 

It pangs, in his chest, to think of her. He misses her smile and the gentle way she’d touch his cheek and whisper her love against his lips. He thinks sometimes, of all the time they’d lost out on because he was too scared to ruin what they had, too scared of losing her before he ever had her. 

It’s a pattern of behavior with him—running away from a good thing because he thinks he’s not good enough. He’d run from Pepper and tried to get Rhodey to leave more times than he could count, and yet, they’d stayed. 

He wonders if Steve will stay this time, if maybe they can both stop running. 

* * *

_ Steve, _

_ I’ve got tickets to a show in Pittsburgh I think you’d like. If you want to come, meet me at the helipad tomorrow at 7pm. Bring an overnight bag. _

_ Yours, _

_ Tony _

* * *

Steve stares nervously across the expanse of the plane to where Tony is talking with the pilot, laughing and grinning. He’s still not sure if this is a good idea. He’d hesitated at the invitation, wary that it was too much too soon for them, but he’d called his therapist and talked it out for nearly an hour, realizing by the end that he was going to have to take some risks if he wanted the payoff. 

If he wanted Tony to trust him, to be his friend again, he’s going to have to put his heart on the line—and that’s more terrifying than watching Bucky fall from the train. It’s quite possibly the scariest thing he’s ever done. 

There’s a rumble of engines and when he looks up, Tony is smiling at him from the seat across the way. The whole interior is lavish; comfortable and done in gold and reds and the familiarity of those colors makes him smile. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders and he settles back into the seat, giving Tony a wry smirk, “What, you don’t like to pilot anymore?” he asks, “thought for sure you’d be flying this bird.”

Tony grins and pours himself a glass of what looks like sparkling water, squeezes a lime into it and then sips before he answers. “Not really able to talk if I’m flying,” he murmurs, shooting Steve a soft smile. 

Steve’s belly flutters and he inhales unevenly at that smile—it’s the one Tony used to give him when they were in his lab, Steve drawing while Tony worked. It’s soft and warm and sends a thrill over his spine. 

Blushing, he nods and looks away. “Right well, thank you for inviting me, it-uh, it means a lot,” he manages to stammer out, cheeks hot as he curses himself for sounding like a bumbling idiot. 

“Hey Steve?”

He looks up and Tony is leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands between his legs, loose and relaxed, sweater sleeves pushed up so Steve can see his muscular forearms. They flex as Tony’s fingers twitch and he tears his eyes away reluctantly to meet his burnt sugar gaze. 

Tony’s lips curl slowly and Steve _ feels _ it like those lips are on his skin, soft and warm and he shivers, swallowing hard. 

“I’m glad you came,” Tony murmurs, voice low and honest and a little raw with emotion. 

Steve nods nervously and smiles back, “Me too.”

* * *

There’s a car to drive them wherever it is they’re going—because Tony absolutely refuses to tell him—and Steve watches the city pass by till they’re pulling up in front of a white building with a glass dome and arching stairways and flowers everywhere. 

Oddly enough, there’s no one inside or out, but then, he glances at Tony and thinks that it’s not so odd for the world’s most famous hero to want a little privacy. It used to bother him—the way Tony would buy out an entire restaurant just for the team to eat at, but when he’d nitpicked about it one too many times, Tony hadn’t said anything, no, he’d just let them pick where they wanted to eat and then sat back, smirking, while the team was overwhelmed with fans and paparazzi. 

They start at the beginning of the museum, and he stares in awe at the flowers that have been encouraged to grow on a wall in the shape and likeness of Vincent Van Gogh. It takes his breath away, the artistry of it, and he steps forward till he’s close enough that he can see each petal and smell the sweet scent of the flowers and he closes his eyes for a moment, breathing it in. 

He doesn’t flinch when Tony’s fingers brush against the skin of his elbow; eyes sliding open slowly he looks over and smiles, tears in his vision and swallows hard, barely able to get the words out, but he manages a choked _ thank you _ and Tony’s gaze softens, warms, and the touch at his elbow turns into a squeeze, holding him while they stare at each other, words unnecessary. 

When he’s wrangled his emotions back into place he nods and Tony steps away, leading him to the elevators and up to the second floor where the real tour begins. He follows Tony through a swinging door and walks into a living painting and he can’t help the smile that breaks out on his face. 

He laughs and steps forward, spinning in a circle as he tries to take everything in at once, heart clenching with joy and he stops when he sees Tony staring at him, warm smile on his lips. He’s seized with the urge to run over and kiss the other man, but he holds back, barely. 

Instead, he walks over calmly and stares down at Tony, throat thick and he’s all too aware that he’s been staring too long and finally, _ finally _ he manages a shaky smile and another quiet, intense, _ thank you. _

* * *

They move onward from the first room after Steve tells him everything there is to know about _ Olive Trees with Yellow Sky and Sun _and the way it’s been brought to life with millions of flowers. He’s never seen Steve this animated before, never seen such joy and intensity in his eyes or a smile so large grace his handsome face. 

It’s intoxicating—the euphoria in the air mingling with the sweet scent of millions of flowers and herbs. The lights are low as they walk into _ Starry Night _and he stands a little too close to Steve but can’t quite make himself step away when he sees the rapturous look on the younger man’s face. 

Steve’s fingers are pressed to his lips, eyes wide and shining under the dim glow of fairy lights meant to mimic the night sky that’s just visible through the arched glass ceiling, and Tony can see the faint quiver in the muscles of his jaw as he struggles to remain composed and without thinking, he reaches out and takes Steve’s free hand.

Steve turns bright eyes on him and smiles, lips quivering for a moment before he laughs brokenly and the tears in his eyes roll down his cheeks. “This was my ma’s favorite painting,” he tells Tony hoarsely, uncaring of how raw and exposed he is in this moment as he cries freely, a bittersweet smile on his lips. 

Tony nods and smiles sadly, “My mother loved his work too,” he murmurs, recalling how anytime he’d entered her private sitting room it would be filled with sunflowers. He’s often thought that those flowers were the only kind thing his father had ever done for his wife. 

Steve’s fingers tighten around his and he’s drawn back to the present where Steve is staring at him, longing so blatant in his gaze that it sends a shiver over his spine. His gaze flickers to Steve’s mouth unbidden and he swallows hard at how pink those lips are—they’d put to shame even the finest rose petals. 

He squeezes Steve’s hand and smiles shakily, “C’mon, there’s more,” he encourages, taking a step away to lead Steve onward, fingers still entwined and it feels so natural, so right, that he’s loath to let go. 

Steve exclaims at the sight of _ Houses at Auvers _and hurries forward, leading Tony by the hand into the room. Tony’s heart aches funnily when Steve steps away, hand slipping free of his and starts reading the sign, watching his blonde head duck down, aglow amid a landscape of oak and cypress, vining mandevilla and blue and red summer blooms.

When Steve turns to smile at him he’s struck suddenly with the realization that he’s the most beautiful thing in the room, and it makes something in his gut twist with need. 

Steve waves him over and he lets the younger man grab his hand again, a shiver running over his skin at the contact. It’s familiar and alien all at once and he doesn’t let go, even though the rational part of his brain is screaming he should. 

_ These are the hands that almost killed me! Let go! Run! _

He doesn’t though. 

He’s done running. 

* * *

Steve thanks him so many times during dinner he eventually has to give him a playfully stern look and tell him to stop or he’ll never do something nice for him again. Steve flushes and ducks his chin, but smiles softly and looks up at him through his lashes, so Tony counts it as a win. 

Instead of a hotel, the car takes them to his penthouse in the city, the elevator rising higher and higher till the whole city is spread out below them, glowing and bright and beautiful. 

Steve heads straight to the window and stares out, a faint smile on his lips. “No matter how much of the world I see, I never get used to how amazing it is,” he murmurs, smiling his thanks when Tony hands him a mug of coffee. 

Nodding slowly he sips his own(decaf—Karen had switched him a few weeks ago and his heart feels better for it) and smiles sadly, “It’s a shame that my view of it from space has been so god awful both times,” he murmurs, staring resolutely out the window as he feels Steve’s gaze fall on him. 

“Astronauts talk about it being a-a _ religious _ experience,” he explains softly, brow furrowed, “and it was always like that when I flew in the suit. I never believed in God, but that feeling of seeing the world so little below you,” he trails off with a shake of his head, “it makes you realize how small _ you _are.” 

“Inconsequential,” Steve supplies softly and Tony looks at him in surprise, nodding after a moment in agreement. 

“When I first saw this modern world, I felt helpless,” Steve tells him, fingers clenching around the mug, “I didn’t know how this world could need a relic like Captain America when it had Iron Man. You’re the future and I was the past and it-it was so different, so _ large, _and I was still me, still that little guy from Brooklyn just in better packaging and I felt so weak again,” he murmurs hoarsely. “I was so lonely and scared.”

Tony swallows hard at the pain in the other man’s voice and turns to face him a little more. “The world didn’t need Captain America, they needed—_ need— _the little guy. The guy who stood up to bullies twice his size and lied to get into the military and disobeyed orders and has a heart the size of Brooklyn.” 

He stares longingly at Steve even as he puts his heart on the line and rips his own guts out, “It isn’t just the world that needs you,” he whispers, fingers reaching out to brush nervously at Steve’s, “I do, too.” 

Steve’s brilliant gaze grows hazy with unshed tears and his broad shoulders hitch on a choked off sob. Tony curses silently and steps forward, reaches up to cup the back of his neck and pull him down so his forehead is pressed to Tony’s shoulder. 

He holds Steve while he cries, feels this mountain of a man shake like a baby, clinging to him like Tony is the only thing keeping him from drowning and Tony, Tony aches, deep down into the core of him over just how badly they’ve hurt each other. 

“Steve,” he breaths, “shh, it’s ok,” he soothes, voice shaky and raw, “we’re gonna be ok.”

It’s a long time till they’re both back on solid ground, wiping their eyes and sharing soft, hopeful smiles. 

He still has something planned for tonight though, so he touches Steve’s arm lightly and points to the couch when he has his attention. “There’s something I want to show you,” he murmurs questioningly—if Steve is tired it’s fine, it can wait, it just won’t have the same emotional impact later, he thinks. 

Steve nods and they seat themselves, shoulders inches apart but not quite brushing, and he uses his phone to bring up what it is he’s been hoping to show Steve. He pauses as the projection of the show appears on the wall and looks to Steve once more, “Nat told me you’ve seen some of this show but not this episode in particular. I think you’ll like it,” he explains before letting the show resume. 

The familiar music plays and Steve’s lips curl up as the episode of Doctor Who starts. It’s Tony’s favorite too, and he half watches the show and half Steve’s face as the doctor and his companion meet Van Gogh and go on adventures, admiring the way Steve’s lips spread when he smiles and how his eyes glaze with tears as the episode draws closer to the end. 

As Van Gogh is brought to the future for a look at his work and influence he feels Steve stiffen beside him and when he looks over he sees the younger man’s jaw is like steel, his eyes stormy and wet. 

He doesn’t think, just reaches out and grabs his hand like he did at the museum and laces their fingers together as the museum docent on the screen lauds a man who had thought his life’s work was a failure, unknowing that the very man he spoke of was before him. 

_ Well. Um, big question, um, but to me, Van Gogh is the finest painter of them all. Certainly the most popular great painter of all time. The most beloved. His command of color, the most magnificent. He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty. Pain is easy to portray but to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world. No one had ever done it before. Perhaps no one ever will again. To my mind, that strange wild man who roamed the fields of Provence, was not only the world’s greatest artist but also one of the greatest men who ever lived. _

Steve breaks as Van Gogh cries, a sob tearing out of his chest and his grip on Tony’s hand is nearly crushing. He weeps as the show ends, large hand pressed to his trembling lips and when Tony gently squeezes his hand, turns eyes the color of an ocean after a storm onto him. 

“I always thought the world of you Steve,” he murmurs, “not the perfect soldier everyone wanted to see, but the good man who had volunteered so many times to do the right thing even though everyone said he was too little, too weak.” 

Steve makes a soft, wounded sound and Tony’s fingers tighten around his comfortingly, “I wanted to be like Captain America so my dad would be proud of me,” he admits, throat growing thick with each word, and he averts his gaze for what he’s going to say next— “but I wanted to be like Steve Rogers so he would love me.”

He barely gets the words out before his own eyes well and he’s sniffling, trying to hold back the tears, throat raw and tight and his chest aches under the pressure of his ribs trying to contain his broken heart. 

He’s engulfed in an embrace a moment later, Steve’s arm wrapped around his back so he’s held close, a large hand at the back of his head cupping it gently and he can feel damp heat of Steve’s breath against his neck with every unsteady inhale and exhale the larger man takes. 

He hesitates for a moment and then sinks into it, eyes falling shut as he wraps his arms around Steve’s narrow waist and clings onto him. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, voice hoarse and low in his ear, “Howard wasn’t even my friend, I hate that he used me as a way to hurt you.”

It’s like being punched in the gut, to hear that. His breath hitches and he nods, presses his face to Steve’s shoulder and breathes out wetly, sure he’s dampening the fabric of his shirt with his breath and tears. 

The fingers at his neck caress his skin and the soft hairs at the nape of his neck and he shudders, melts a little further into the touch. He’s warm now—Steve gives off so much heat it’s impossible _ not _to be—and when he shifts, Steve holds him tighter for a moment before releasing him and letting them part slowly. 

Steve’s fingers slide through his hair and then down his jaw, lingering as they fade from his skin and Tony sees the yearning in his gaze once more, feels it echoed in his own heart and when their gazes meet his stomach flips, butterflies bursting to life under his skin. 

His gaze falls to Steve’s mouth and his heart stutters when he looks back up and finds staring at him wide eyed, pupils blown, aching need written in every line of his body. Suddenly the years drop away and he remembers the first time he’d realized he was half in love with Steve. 

It was six months after the battle of New York and the Avengers were living together like one big dysfunctional family. He’d been drinking too much because Pepper had left him and had gone down to the shop, unable and unwilling to sleep and had worked for awhile before Steve showed up with pizza and a request to spend his sleepless hours with Tony. 

They ate and talked and eventually Steve told him that he thought it was unfair of Pepper to leave him over Iron Man. 

_ You _ ** _are _ ** _ Iron Man, you and the suit, I don’t know how she can’t see it. The world needs you, _ ** _we _ ** _ need you. _

Steve had pried him out of the lab after a few more hours and ridden up to the penthouse with him to make sure he got there safely—despite being the most secure building in the world—and before he left, Steve had laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, eyes sad and soft. 

_ If she doesn’t know what a good man you are and can’t support you, maybe she’s not the one. _

He’d lain in bed, fingers rubbing where Steve had touched, skin warm as though the heat of his touch lingered and made it glow. 

Now here they sit, and that same glow warms his whole body. 

He’s scared, so fucking scared it makes his stomach flip, but he’s more scared of what will happen if he doesn’t stop running, stop lying to himself, stop sabatoging every good thing before he ever gets it. 

So instead of pulling away like every sensible part of his brain is screaming at him to do, he leans in and furrows his fingers through Steve’s golden hair, presses against the nape of his neck and draws him in till their lips are just a breath apart. 

Steve’s long lashes flutter and his breathing hitches loudly, and Tony waits till Steve’s gaze meets his and then closes the gap, watching as those hurricane eyes slide shut on the storm, and just like that, the battle between them is won and lost in equal measure as they slide together like missing puzzle pieces. 

Steve sighs and his lips part as Tony’s nails scrape against his scalp, a low humming sound vibrating in the back of his throat when Tony nips gently at his full lower lip. 

Tony takes his time, luxuriating in each new sensation—the sound Steve makes when Tony tilts his head back so he can sit up higher and deepen it, the way he gasps when Tony’s tongue meets his, and the whine he elicits by tugging gently on his golden locks is enough to have his blood rushing south. 

He extricates himself slowly, letting Steve chase his lips a few times before he pulls back and just breaths. His heart pounds in his chest and his blood thrums in his veins, hot and heady, and he hasn’t felt this good in...years. 

Steve’s eyes open slowly and when they meet Tony’s he can see how dazed Steve is. Smiling softly, he jerks his head, “C’mon, I’ll show you your room,” he murmurs; taking Steve’s hand to pull him off the couch, he pauses when the younger man resists, blue eyes wide and scared.

“What was that?” Steve whispers, grip too tight and voice low, throat working nervously. 

Tony smiles softly, “A new beginning for both of us.” He reaches out and brushes his fingers through Steve’s hair, watching the way the other man melts into his touch, eyes hooding as he looks longingly up at Tony through his impossibly long lashes. 

“What do you say?” he asks softly, hope nearly choking him, “want to start over?”

Steve smiles and it’s like the sun bursting through the clouds. He rises to his feet and towers over Tony, hands sliding around his waist as he bends his head toward Tony till their lips are scant breaths apart. 

“More than anything,” Steve murmurs, desperate and hopeful and so goddamn beautiful it makes his chest ache every time he looks at him. 

Tony’s hands find his shoulder and hair again, holding him as Steve kisses him, fluttering and soft for a moment before he presses harder and makes a soft noise of pleasure.

Their lips are wet and hot against each other and he can feel Steve grin, wide and happy and hopeful. 

_ A new beginning _ he thinks; hopefully for both of them this time. 

* * *

“Can you tell me why you were going out without armor or your shield to fight crime?” 

They’ve been through this a few times, and every time he answers Dr. Thorne seems to take his word, but inevitably their conversations come back to this one point. 

_ I’m Captain America, I don’t need those things _ he’d said the first time. Dr. Thorne had lifted a brow and leaned forward, _ seems like your injuries and subsequent rehab say differently _she’d murmured, polite as ever, but challenging.

_ I can protect people without them, _ he’d said the second time, _ if I can help, I’m obligated to do so. _ Dr. Thorne had nodded and studied him for a moment before posing a question that had left him confused and shaken— _ what if you’re _ ** _not_ ** _ the right person to help? What if you’re doing more harm than good? _

He’d chewed that thought over, again and again through the week between appointments, wondering if she was right—and then he’d remembered the way Carlos and Tina had looked at him when he was going out at night to patrol, how their eyes had been sad and worried and he was struck by guilt, the bulk of it lodging in his gut like a lead weight.

This time when she asks, he thinks about it for a long time, staring down at his battle worn hands, the scars smoothed out by the serum, but he knows every inch of them would be ragged and worn were it not for the miracle in his blood.

He’s never examined his reasoning for going out and hunting down the murderers and thieves and rapists that had tried to take over his city—he’d just gone out and done it. 

Now though, after months of therapy and journaling and growing steadily happier, more comfortable in his skin, he thinks he has the answer. Now that he’s not drowning in his grief and hurt, he feels like he can see so much more clearly.

He looks back up at Dr. Thorne and shakes his head faintly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest before when you asked,” he murmurs, throat growing thick. 

She smiles softly and leans forward to brush her fingers against his wrist, encircling it gently, her gray green eyes soft, “You weren’t ready Steve and that’s ok.”

He smiles back at her through the tears wetting his lashes and nods—he wasn’t ready to let go of his pain and hurt and loneliness for so long, and he’s still not sure he’s entirely ready, but he wants to be, wants to be _ happy. _

“I think I was trying to punish myself for what happened between Tony and I, how my bull headed actions broke up the only family I had left. I wanted someone to punish me,” he chokes out, lips trembling as he half sobs and half laughs, warmth filling his chest as he finally acknowledges what it was he was trying to do. 

“I was trying to die,” he admits and when he looks up into Dr. Thorne’s eyes, he’s shocked to find tears on her cheeks too. She takes his hand and holds it between hers as he breaks down, crying and laughing in fits, emotions fluctuating wildly as he sobs. 

He feels like he’s crazy sounding as he sobs out broken wet laughs, but it’s so relieving to _ finally _ acknowledge his demons. It’s like he’s taking their power away, taking away their ability to drag him into the shadows and devour him. 

When he’s calmed slightly, Dr. Thorne hands him a bottle of water and waits for him to catch his breath before she smiles and leans back into her chair. She casts a quick glance at her watch and smiles, “Well, we’ve got ten minutes left,” she murmurs, “why don’t you tell me what you’re doing this weekend?”

He smiles, heart fluttering, “I’m going to Tony’s cabin with him for a vacation,” he admits, stomach filled with butterflies as he recalls the look in Tony’s eyes when he’d asked him to come. 

Heated, wanting, _ hungry _. 

Dr. Thorne smirks and lifts a brow, “Well, then I guess things are going well with you two, aren’t they?”

Steve laughs, heart lighter and nods. 

Yea, yea they are. 

* * *

Steve drives up to the cabin on his motorcycle, the wind in his hair and the sun on his face and for the first time in a long time, feels genuinely happy. 

When he pulls up outside the cabin it’s quiet; he can hear the wind in the trees and the distant sound of the waves on the lake sloshing against the shoreline and it’s so peaceful and right it feels like something clicks into place inside him, like he’s _ home. _

The front door creaks open and Tony steps out onto the porch, white linen pants and bare feet and a black polo top that has Steve swallowing hard when he sees the flex of Tony’s biceps. 

He knocks down the kickstand and shuts off the bike, focuses on grabbing his bag, eyes downcast so he can hide how nervous he is. The gravel crunches beneath his boots and he pauses at the foot of the stairs and finally, _ finally _ looks up. 

Tony’s smiling at him, eyes soft and mouth lined around the edges, and something flutters in his belly—hopeful and nervous and excited. 

“Why don’t you come inside, I’ll show you around?” Tony suggests, taking half a step back to wave a hand toward the door. 

Steve nods and steps up, follows him inside, his eyes adjusting near instantly to the light difference. It’s...very different than the penthouse in the city. Much more subdued and...homey. 

It must show on his face, the surprise, because Tony chuckles and runs a hand through his silver-black hair, “Pep designed most of this place, but I love it here. It’s quiet and gives me a chance to get away from the stress.”

Steve nods and looks around at the cozy furniture and thinks that this is the most relaxed he’s ever seen Tony, the most at home in his surroundings he’s seemed outside of the lab. 

“C’mon, I want to show you something,” Tony says, waving a hand, his smile eager and warm. Steve sets down his bag by the stairs and follows Tony out onto the glassed in portion of the porch and stops abruptly at the easel and canvas waiting there.

One whole corner of the room is dominated by art supplies; drawing pads, canvases, oils and charcoal and pencils—more than he’s ever owned, more than he’s ever even thought to buy, and it strikes him suddenly that Tony did this _ for him. _

He’d ordered these supplies with the thought in mind that Steve might like to sit here and look out the window at the beautiful view of the mountains and the lake and spend his day painting or drawing. 

He doesn’t remember walking over to Tony, doesn’t know how he got here, but he’s here, on the cliffs edge, ready to dive off and his hands are shaking and his palms are sweaty, but he manages to whisper out a broken and weak plea—_ Can I kiss you? _

Tony nods, wide eyed, and Steve cups his face with one large hand, tilts his chin up and closes the space between them so he can feel the firm press of Tony against him as he kisses him, soft and slow and sweet. 

Tony hums, a soft noise that settles in Steve’s gut, makes him want to hear more. He presses forward and teases Tony’s tongue with his, the heat of his mouth devastating and wanton. He imagines it around his cock and whimpers, presses harder into Tony, gasping as Tony’s hands at his waist slide down to grab his ass and rock their hips together. 

The sound he lets out when he feels the half hard length of Tony pressing into him borders on embarrassing, and when Tony breaks away, he’s breathing heavily, aching need flush under his skin—too hot, too heavy, like molasses in his veins. 

Tony cradles his cheek and smiles up at him, “Save some of that for later huh? I wanna show you where you’re gonna stay.”

Steve nods, biting his lip to hold back a needy sound and almost loses the tenuous hold on his control when Tony hums again and pulls his lip from between his teeth and rubs his thumb over the wet that’s lingering there. 

Brown eyes turned black with desire gaze up at him and he can’t hold back a half choked sound of desire when Tony exhales raggedly and drags his thumb down so his spit is wiped on his chin. There something so degrading about it, _ owning _ and _ possessive _that it makes his cock jump. 

Tony steps back and offers his hand to Steve, gaze dark and hot, and when Steve’s palm slides against Tony’s, he shudders with pleasure. 

“C’mon sweetheart, let me show you the rest,” Tony murmurs, tugging on his hand—and Steve goes, letting Tony lead while he follows. 

* * *

They settle into a pattern quickly—Steve rises early and goes for a run around the lake and up the mountain, cools off with a swim and then comes back to the house to make breakfast for he and Tony. 

Tony looks adorable just out of bed, hair ruffled and sleepy lines pressed into his face, his cotton sleep pants hanging low on his hips so a strip of skin shows between the hem of his tank top and the edge of his pants. 

Steve tries not to think about that strip of skin, or the one on his lower back that’s exposed when Tony stretches like a cat, but it’s hard. 

This morning Tony makes grabby hands for the coffee and drains it in three large gulps that have to burn, but doesn’t even seem to register for Tony. He surprises Steve by leaning against him while he cooks, forehead pressing into his spine, arms around his waist, his soft sigh of contentment sinking into Steve like a ray of sunshine. 

He’d asked FRIDAY to play music quietly, and now that Tony’s (mostly) awake, he hums along, smiling softly at the way Tony rocks them, ever so gently, like they’re dancing. 

_ Baby, baby, babe _

_ I'm coming home _

_ To your tender sweet loving _

_ You're my one and only woman _

_ The world leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, girl _

_ You're the only one that I want _

He flips the gas off under the pan of eggs and puts a lid on, slides them off the heat and turns, captures Tony’s hand in his and slides his other around the smaller man’s waist. 

Tony grins sleepily at him, “Thought you’d never ask soldier.”

Steve smiles back softly, “Didn't really ask,” he murmurs, guiding them gently around the kitchen, “guess I shoulda.”

Tony hums and lays his cheek against Steve’s chest, “Feel free to sweep me off my feet anytime you like sweetheart.”

_ Sweetheart _

It’s not the first time Tony’s called him that, and every time he does Steve gets this little shot of warmth right through him, like sunshine sinking into his bones. 

They have to part eventually, but Tony sits pressed against him while they eat, his body a reassuring warmth against Steve’s. They talk about everything—food and music and Tony’s loathing for decaf coffee and Steve’s love of jazz. Everyday they learn a little bit more about each other, and everyday Steve falls a little more in love with Tony. 

While Tony spends the afternoon in the lab, Steve paints, losing himself in the quiet sounds of the forest, playing with light and shadow till it’s too dark to continue. 

Tony lures him back into the house with kisses and smiles, the scent of something meaty and hot making his stomach rumble eagerly. He’s surprised when he sees the table set with candles and flowers and a spread of food that looks incredible. 

Tony pours him a glass of wine and hands it over with a little smirk, “Let me know what you think,” he murmurs, lifting his own glass to tap lightly against Steve’s so a dulcet ringing wavers through the air and long after it’s gone from normal hearing, he can sense it softening and fading away. 

They sit and Tony fills his plate, telling him all about the ossobuco and how his grandfather (Tony calls him Nonno and it makes Steve grin stupidly, _ affectionately _ at him) taught him how to make it.

Tony explains the dish and where it’s from in Italy and how it was the dish his Nonno made for his Nonna; how it was the dish his Nonno Antonio made when his Nonna Raquel’s mother died and she was devastated, left to care for her three younger siblings. 

Antonio had wooed her with meals, come to cook for her and her young siblings—their father long gone by then, _ no one knows where Tony, it’s impolite to ask _—did repairs around the house so she wouldn’t have to pay someone, helped her plant a garden and grow it, and slowly, over two years, won her heart. 

Tony looks sad for a moment, bittersweet smile on his face, and shakes his head, meeting Steve’s gaze, “There isn’t love like that anymore,” he murmurs with a soft sigh. 

It makes something in his chest pinch, to see Tony look like that, and he wants so _ badly _to blurt it out, to tell Tony how much he loves him, but he knows, deep down that he can’t, not yet. 

Not while this is so _ new _and fragile like freshly spun glass. 

Steve is hesitant, but reaches out anyway, telegraphing his movements so he doesn’t startle Tony, and lays his hand over Tony’s, smiles as he turns it and swipes his thumb over Tony’s knuckles. 

“Maybe you just haven’t found it yet,” he suggests softly, carefully. Tony stares at him for a moment and Steve can feel his pulse under his fingers, skipping faster, and he hopes he hasn’t messed this up, hopes he hasn’t presumed too much, hopes—

Tony’s lips against his shut down his train of thought; soft and light, it’s a tender thing, sweeter than the lightest ambrosia and headier than any wine. 

His eyes are still closed when Tony pulls away; they flutter open at the touch of Tony’s fingers against his cheek and he feels the flush there like he’s been sitting too close to a fire—maybe he has, he thinks dizzily, maybe Tony is a flame and he’s a moth and he’s going to get burned. 

Or maybe, they’ll be like fireflies, burning brightly together through the night. 

“Maybe I haven’t,” Tony agrees, thumb running over Steve’s cheekbone again and again, the lines around his eyes deeper with his smile and Steve finds he can’t help but reach up to trace them gently in return.

Tony kisses him once more before they move to clear the table and wash the dishes, and then three more times while they do the dishes and Steve’s hair ends up damp from Tony’s wet hands but he doesn’t care because Tony is looking at him like _ that _—dark hungry eyes and smirking lips and he moves with a grace that feel like a seduction in and of itself. 

By the time they get to the huge couch to watch a movie Steve’s cock is half hard and he’s wound tight, aching for more, but too scared to ask. 

Tony sits pressed against him, hip to thigh, and the heat of him, the scent of him is enough to drive Steve slowly insane in the dark, the images on the screen not nearly captivating enough to break through the deluge of increasingly filthy thoughts he’s entertaining.

A hand lands on his thigh and he clenches, shudders when it slides higher. If Tony keeps going he’s going to feel...going to _ know _...he gasps when Tony does just that—hand sliding up to caress where he’s mostly hard—and his hips buck up as he whines, flushes and then hides his face, wishing he could escape. 

“Hey, c’mere,” Tony murmurs, tugging on his forearms till his face is exposed, and then tugs more as he lays back against the opposite arm rest, pulls until Steve is laying on top of him and he’s trying to get away, protesting that he’s too heavy and Tony short circuits his brain by grabbing the back of his neck and shoving a thigh between his legs.

He pants and buries his face against Tony’s shoulder, embarrassed and aroused and struggling to stay still against the pressure on his cock that begs for him to grind against. 

Tony’s fingers slide from the nape of his neck up into his hair, tugging gently and he bucks his hips without thinking, moaning at the pressure and friction and gasps when Tony does it again, hips moving without his permission. 

“Steve, honey, look at me?” 

It’s a struggle, but he manages to lift his head and stare bleary eyed at Tony. Dark eyes assess him for a moment before the older man surges up and captures his mouth in a searing kiss. Steve groans and leans into it, panting and whining low in his throat as he starts rocking against Tony’s thigh. 

He’s dizzy with pleasure before he knows it, arching into Tony’s tugs on his hair, rolling his hips to get _ more more more _ of that delicious friction, raspy mewls of pleasure coming from his kiss bruised lips. 

It’s not just the sensation of it all, it’s the _ sound _—Tony’s low moans and the slick slide of their lips together, the rasps of breath against his skin, the thundering of his heart in his ears. 

He experiences it with every sense, nerves on fire as they rock together, Tony’s hands in his hair and on his ass, scratching up and down his back, nails against bare skin, pulling and pushing him closer and closer to coming. 

He can feel it building and whines, shakes his head and tries to fight it but Tony grabs his chin and kisses him, hard, breathless and wide eyed when they break apart; “Come on Steve, come for me,” he whispers, and that’s it—the last of his tenuous restraint snaps and he grinds into Tony’s thigh with moans that are loud, unabashed and wanton. 

His cheeks are on fire as Tony murmurs encouragement; _ there you go, just like that Steve, god look at you—so gorgeous, c’mon Steve, come for me. _

Tony fists his hair and gives it a tug that on anyone else would be painful, but on Steve feels like the tug of a leash and the thought of that—_ Steve with a collar and a leash at Tony’s feet— _sends him careening over the edge with a high broken cry. 

His hips jolt as his cock twitches and spills inside his jeans, chest heaving as Tony croons praise, every word like melting ice cream on his brain. He collapses onto Tony, face pressed against the column of his throat, panting for breath and sticky with sweat. 

Fingers comb through his hair and he makes a small, soft sound of pleasure, places open mouthed kisses to Tony’s neck and sighs happily when Tony murmurs _ so good Steve, so good for me. _

He comes back around slowly to the feeling of cum in his briefs and the realization that he’d come by rutting against Tony’s leg like a horny teenager without ever checking to make sure the other man got off too. 

He pushes back and sits up, disappointment welling when he sees that Tony’s hard. He reaches for it, determined to do something about it, but gets knocked away by Tony’s hand. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony murmurs, wriggling upright to grab the back of his neck again. When Steve struggles again Tony surges up and kisses him, kisses until he’s weak and lax and getting hard again in Tony’s arms. 

“Now,” Tony murmurs against his throat where he’s working on leaving a mark, “don’t worry about me; I’m older and slower than I used to be and it’s no big deal if I don’t come—especially if I get to see something as beautiful as _ you _when you come.”

Steve flushes an even deeper red but opens his eyes when Tony asks him to look at him, head dazed and light. Tony smiles and runs his thumb over Steve’s swollen lips, “You’re so goddamn sweet baby,” he whispers, and Steve shudders, the slide of that word like honey in his veins. 

“T-Tony,” he gasps out, hushing when the older man covers his lips with his own. 

“C’mon, lets go get showers and go to bed,” Tony encourages, takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs. 

They shower separately, and when Steve’s done he clutches the towel tight at his waist and hurries to grab a fresh pair of briefs while Tony cleans up. He brushes his teeth and stares at his reflection; lips pink and swollen, skin flushed, red marks on his throat and clavicle.

He looks debauched, wanton and easy, and he shudders because he wants _ more; more _ of Tony’s marks, _ more _ of his kisses, _ more... _ ** _everything. _ **

“Knock knock.”

He spits and rinses and goes out to find Tony lounging in the doorway looking enticing and vulnerable all at the same time. Tony jerks his chin back, “Why don’t you stay with me?” he suggests—and Steve can hear the hesitation, the fear and the hope all bundled up together.

He thinks about it—kissing and making out and coming in his pants is different than this; sleeping together is an intimacy he hasn’t shared since Carlos. It’s scary; the idea of opening up again, especially when he and Tony have hurt each other so badly before, but if they’re ever going to be together, if they want a clean start, they have to do these scary things. 

So he nods, smiles nervously and takes the hand that Tony extends to him and lets the older man lead him down the hallway and into his bed. The lights click off and he lays there, inches away from Tony and too scared to move. 

Tony rolls and pushes back, slotting his back to Steve’s chest and grabs his hand to lift and cover the center of his chest—where the reactor used to be, where his heart still is—and that’s how Steve falls asleep; with Tony’s heart under his hand and his soft breathing in his ear. 

Outside the window the last of the fireflies flutter and dance, their short lives dwindling, fading, dying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one year left guys!! I truly hope you've enjoyed this chapter; it has a lot of my favorite moments in the whole story between these two and everyone can rest easy, the angst between Steve and Tony is over!! Is it over for everyone? No, because next year is the battle against Thanos. 
> 
> I want to point out if it's not clear to anyone that the events in this story aren't always being portrayed as chronological--they are often out of order and the events take place over a year, so the growth you're seeing in these characters isn't happening in just a few days, but many many months. 
> 
> I saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
😭 = I got you right in the feels  
🔥 = this was so hot!  
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
> 
> Once again, this story will be over with our final chapter, but there will be one shots that take place in this universe that will be added to the series as I have time and inspiration. If you have anything in particular you'd like to see happen, shout out in the comments or leave me (mod Stella) an ask over on Tumblr @ TheRollingStonys


	5. Year Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end draws near and Thanos is inevitable, but that doesn't mean that the Earth and the galaxy are left undefended. The Avengers (re) Assemble.

* * *

Natasha’s return to wakefulness is abrupt and silent; after a lifetime of training, combat and survival her body is a fine tuned weapon, alert and ready in a breath. 

The faint arching glow of the night light in the bathroom provides just enough light that she can see the shape of the room—the dresser that she and James share in the corner, the window through which the moonlight is fading, the lump at the foot of the bed that is James’s world weary cat, Huey. 

What she _ can’t _ see is any threat or reason for her sudden wakefulness. Her pulse is steady and even, despite the initial shock of adrenaline to her system, and she lays still and silent, listening intently for any sound other than the soft breaths of Huey and James. 

There’s nothing; just the hum of the air conditioning system and the breeze outside the window. 

She stares at the ceiling, mentally counting to a thousand before sighing and slipping carefully from the bed. James’s arms around her waist slide away and where a lifetime ago she would have shed the affection like a wary alley cat, now she regrets losing it the moment she’s out from under the covers.

With a quick scratch behind Huey’s ears and a sweater of James’s pulled on over the tank top and boxers she’s stolen from him, she eases out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. 

James’s home—_ their home _ she reminds herself—is unlike the Avengers compound in nearly every way. Where the compound is sleek and futuristic, their home is a beautiful brownstone with restored wood floors and rolling doors on the office that she and James work out of. 

There are of course, small concessions to Tony’s love and overprotective instincts; EDITH is used for security purposes and while James pretends not to know about the surface to air missiles and defense systems strong enough to stop an alien invasion, Natasha knows he’s secretly grateful. 

The stove clicks for a moment until the pilot light catches and the burner whooshes to beautiful blue life. She fills the kettle and measures out honey into her mug before adding the teabag of mint leaves and then leans against the counter, watching the flames dance under the scorched bottom of the kettle. 

Huey chirps as he pads into the room, paws at her feet and then stretches up, meowing softly, his baleful green eyes imploring her to pick him up. With a soft sigh and grin, she crouches and lifts him carefully, as aware of his aching joints as she is of her own. 

Huey nuzzles her chin and offers a single rough tongued lick before squirming so he’s cradled like a baby against her chest and shoulder. Smirking, she runs her scarlet nails through his fur and hums softly a Russian lullaby she remembers being sung to her by a faceless woman who might have been her mother or just another nurse from the orphanage. 

When the kettle starts to whistle softly she shuts off the gas and deftly pours the water while cradling a now sleeping Huey in the other hand. It’s a balancing act as she walks silently to the office she and James share, but no more treacherous than the time she walked a high wire between two buildings in Hong Kong to complete a mission.

Huey makes a soft chirping sound as she sinks into the chair and then rearranges himself on her lap as she taps the screen of her tablet to bring up the internal security system the compound runs on while she’s not there. 

It’s been a year and half since she and James bought this house and she left the compound behind, but with no one else to look over it, she still keeps a wary eye on the building and the surroundings. 

She scrolls through the system logs and laughs softly at the video of a curious racoon waddling up to the empty dumpsters only to be shooed away by Tony’s guardian drones. There’s no intruders or malfunctions on the tapes so she switches to the email that she uses to keep in touch with Carol and Thor and Rocket, all of them off on different planets or missions for the time being. 

Grinning at the photos of Carol, Maria and Monica all snuggled together, she sips on her tea and scrolls to the next message from Thor. He’s sent a video message this time and is slightly more coherent than usual, but her heart still aches for her friend and the unimaginable losses he’s suffered. 

She records a small video and sends it to Thor and then taps out an email to Carol, and by the time she’s done checking her alerts on Avengers level threats, the sun is just starting to peek over the horizon. 

Huey takes her seat when she stands and stretches, fingers reaching toward the ceiling as her toes curl into the Persian rug and her spine cracks pleasantly. The tablet pings behind her and she lowers slowly back to the flats of her feet before turning and grabbing her mug, the last dregs of tea cool now, but sweet on her tongue. 

Frowning, she pulls up the alert and accesses the video, going still as a statue when she sees a figure at the front door of the compound. 

_ “Oh. Hi. Hi, is anyone home? This is Scott Lang. We met a few years ago at the airport in Germany. I got really big. I had my mask on. You wouldn’t recognize me.” _

“EDITH is this an old message?” Natasha asks breathlessly, watching as the man on the screen bangs on the front door once more. 

_ “Ant-Man. Ant-Man. I know you know that.” _

_ “It’s the front door of the compound Natasha, a live feed” _ EDITH replies calmly. 

_ “I really need to talk to you guys,” _Scott shouts, waving at the cameras, and Natasha can’t stop the wet laugh that bursts out, vision blurring with tears. 

“_ Shall I wake James?” _EDITH asks politely and Natasha grins, wiping under her eyes, something like hope igniting in her chest. 

“Yea, wake him up.”

* * *

Scott spends the next hour explaining to them about the quantum realm and time travel and by the time he’s done Natasha is only about 65% sure she understands all of the science, but the basic concepts she grasps easily enough. 

She and James dress and pour coffee into travel mugs, the scent comforting and familiar; hickory and chocolate and warmth. The drive to Tony’s cabin is quiet; Scott naps, Natasha drives, James holds her hand and when she glances over at him she sees the same hope in his eyes that she feels reflecting back from hers. 

This has the feeling of a second chance, and she’s had precious few of those in her life. 

Maybe it’s a second chance for all of them. 

* * *

Steve groans, an almost pained sound, as Tony pushes into him; the breadth of his cock sliding in easily, pushing at his hot, sensitive insides, the throb in his gut growing with each steady roll of Tony’s hips.

Tony’s made him come twice already; a nice slow handjob in the kitchen and then by playing with his nipples while he fingered Steve open—and that one, that one had _ devastated _Steve with its intensity. 

He’s still not sure he’s come down fully from it, and with Tony inside him, hot and hard and demanding, it feels like too much and yet desperately not enough. 

It’s been months since the first time at Tony’s cabin when he’d rutted against the older man’s leg and come in his jeans but time hadn’t lessened the need he feels when they’re together—it had only strengthened it, intensified it. 

A sharp bite to his throat pulls him back into the moment and Tony nips at his jaw before chuckling and thrusting hard, once, to get his attention. “Did I lose your interest there baby?” he asks, grinding his hips against Steve’s ass, voice low and uneven in Steve’s ear. 

Steve shakes his head, sweat damp strands of hair clinging to his temple and Tony smiles softly, fondly, and pushes them back before kissing him and _ god, _ kissing Tony is his favorite thing, the _ best _thing he’s ever experienced. 

Sure, sex with Tony is wonderful, but the deeply connected intimacy of kissing Tony is something he craves near constantly. So he clings tighter to Tony and gasps when the other man rolls his hips and digs his nails into Steve’s thigh, his calloused hand firm and strong, keeping it lifted and wrapped around his waist.

“You’re so gorgeous sweetheart,” Tony murmurs against his lips, his smile soft and warm against Steve’s mouth. His thrusts stay slow and hard, reaching deep into Steve, breaking him apart one stroke at a time. 

It’s painfully sweet and deliciously slow; sweat on his skin has cooled and sprung up anew twice now, and he’s shaking, nerves on fire with sensation and it’s not nearly enough. 

He thinks maybe it won’t ever be enough, that he’ll always be a needy wreck for Tony, and he hopes that maybe someday he’ll know satisfaction, that he won’t always be so greedy for Tony and the way Tony makes love to him. 

But for now he fists his hands in Tony’s hair and drags him back for a breathless kiss, a deep whimper resonating in his throat as Tony grinds into him, growling with pleasure when Steve tries to rolls his hips and meet Tony’s thrusts. 

Tony’s kisses are demanding and drugging, within minutes he’s floating, whining and writhing in Tony’s arms as the older man takes him apart with heavy thrusts. He’s filled with Tony, surrounded and overwhelmed and yet he still pleads breathlessly for _ more more more Tony, please. _

Tony’s nails rake down his thigh, hot red lines of painful pleasure that have him gasping, cock twitching where it’s trapped between them. “So gorgeous,” Tony whispers, teeth nipping at the taut lines of Steve’s throat, licking the salt from his skin with a low hum. 

Tony’s skin is hot against his own as he works marks onto Steve’s throat that they both know will fade within a few hours, but neither of them care much about that right now. As with most things Tony is a dedicated lover; he finds all the tender places that make Steve squirm and whine and then attacks them with a ferocity that leaves Steve breathless. 

Tony’s focus seems to slip from leaving marks on his throat in favor of sucking and biting at Steve’s already sensitive nipples, the added stimulation pushing him deeper, a sob catching in his throat as Tony rolls his hips slowly in counterpoint to the sharp, nearly painful pleasure of having his chest played with. 

“Mmm you’re so sweet baby,” Tony murmurs against his skin, “you like this huh? Having me play with your nipples?”

Steve nods and whines, spine arching to push them higher, presenting them for more pleasure, more pain, _ more _. 

Chuckling softly, Tony licks delicately over the hardened tip of one nipple, “Yea, you’re beautiful like this Steve,” he croons, catching it between his teeth and tugging. 

Steve gasps sharply, back bowing as his vision goes white and he comes, unexpectedly and all over his stomach. He can hear Tony’s sound of surprise and then cries out when the older man thrusts hard into him and pinches the nipple he’d been toying with. 

When Tony’s suddenly gone from inside him and the press of his body disappears his eyes fly open, searching for Tony before landing on his sleek figure beside the bed. He’s rooting through the side table, ass clenching and Steve moans softly, aching to have him back. 

Tony grins over his shoulder and hushes him gently, twisting to reach out and cup Steve’s cheek. He presses into it, reaching for Tony with a whine in his throat, nearly desperate to have his hands back on his skin. 

“Ok baby, I’m coming,” Tony soothes, sliding back into the bed beside Steve, whatever was in his hand tucked aside for the moment. One large hand cups his hip to pull him onto his side and into an embrace that instantly begins to settle the desperation that had been starting fill him without Tony’s hands on him to keep it away. 

Tony’s thumb at his hip makes small circles while his free hand curls around the nape of his neck, holding him still while Tony kisses him, cocks sliding against each other, slick and hot and hard. He gasps and moans, the sounds swallowed by Tony’s mouth on his, the slow thrust of their hips tantalizing torture. 

“Please,” he pleads, lips slick and shiny from Tony’s mouth, “please, need you,” he gasps, rolling his hips harder, sobbing at the frustrating lack of friction when Tony pulls his hips back.

Tony just grins at him and rolls onto his back, tugging Steve’s arm as he goes, “Come here,” he demands, tugging until Steve goes onto his knees and straddles Tony’s lap. A tanned muscular arm winds around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss that’s hard and hot, teeth nipping at his lip till he tastes copper. 

Tony’s free hand digs into the swell of Steve’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart so when he rolls his hips his cock slides between them with a slick sound that makes Steve moan. The blunt head of it catches on his hole and he shudders, pressing back, chasing it, whining when Tony chuckles and moves his hips so it slides away. 

“You need it that bad, huh sweetheart?” Tony murmurs, leaving yet another mark on Steve’s throat. He nods and arches into the sharp edge of pain from Tony’s teeth on his skin, sighing Tony’s name when his hand at Steve’s ass slips lower, fingers brushing against where he’s wet and open and desperate to be filled. 

Steve sobs when Tony pushes two fingers in, forehead falling to Tony’s shoulder as the older man plays with his rim, fingers slick and calloused against the puffy, sensitive skin. He shivers as Tony toys with him; his body so sensitive that it feels raw and hot and achy, and all he wants is _ more. _

Tony’s voice is low and raspy in his ear, murmuring praise and filth in equal measure, breath hot against his skin and Steve’s gut clenches with how badly he _ wants. _

_ Fuck baby, you sound so pretty when you moan like that. _

_ God Steve, you’re so open for me...can slide my fingers right in. _

_ Bet I could fit more...should we try? _

Steve nods and moans, pushing back as Tony adds a third finger, gasping wetly against his skin, head fuzzy as Tony croons to him. The hand at the nape of his neck squeezes, holding him still as he moans and pants, tongue heavy in his mouth as Tony fingers him, curling deep to press against his prostate. 

Fire crawls up his spine as Tony’s focus holds on his prostate, pressing and rubbing into it till he’s shaking and gasping. His cock twitches and drools against Tony’s stomach, pathetically wet and flushed a rosey crimson at the head. 

He cries out incoherent words of pleasure, sobbing as he begs Tony for more, limbs shaking with need, and Tony, Tony gives him more and more and more till there’s a slick pool of precum from Steve’s cock on his belly. 

He licks his lips and pants against Tony’s shoulder, garbled pleading words slipping past slick lips as Tony spreads his fingers, rubbing and pushing and pulling till Steve feels like he’ll split apart under the force of pleasure building inside him. 

When Tony’s fingers slide out of him with a slick sound that’s loud enough to be heard over his shaky breathing, he shudders and moans, embarrassed and aroused, hips chasing the touch even after it’s gone. “C’mere baby,” Tony murmurs, hand heavy at the nape of his neck, guiding him upright so his bleary gaze and rosey red lips are exposed. 

Tony smiles and traces his thumb over Steve’s lip, slick with spit and puffy from Tony’s kisses and bites. “You’re gorgeous Steve, _ god, _ I wish I could keep you like this forever.”

Steve moans and opens his mouth further, drawing Tony’s thumb between his teeth, sucking on it for a moment before letting it fall free to swipe over his cheek and leave a trail of spit behind. 

“I want it,” he whispers to Tony, “I want to be yours, want you to take me,” he gasps out, voice shaky and low, pleading. 

Tony stares at him wide eyed for a moment before surging up to kiss him, hands fisting Steve’s hair, tugging and pulling to move him where he wants. 

“In me, need you in me,” Steve begs, hips grinding down into Tony’s cock. The older man groans and nods, giving Steve’s lower lip one last parting nip before twisting to grab something from between the sheets. 

Steve whines when he sees the nipple clamps—they haven’t done this yet; he’d only recently started telling Tony about his desires for kink during sex, and though it shouldn’t have surprised him, Tony had been eager to give it to him whenever he decided he was ready. 

Tony’s brows lift with a smirk to accompany them, “You want them?” he asks teasingly and laughs when Steve nods enthusiastically, chest pushing forward in a silent plea. 

Nodding, Tony leans in to kiss each nipple, lick and bite at them a few times till Steve’s squirming and whining, chest flushed a pretty pink with need. Tony guides him up onto his knees so he’s hovering over Tony’s cock, thighs trembling, and then attaches one of the clamps before pushing on Steve’s hip to force him down onto his cock. 

Head falling back, Steve’s long lashes flutter as he cries out, pain and pleasure colliding forcefully. He sobs as Tony guides him down further onto his cock, the heat of it searing inside him where he’s already so tender and soft. 

The other clamp is affixed when Tony’s cock slides all the way home, the stretch leaving him gasping and dazed. Tony calls his name softly and tugs at the chain connecting the clamps, fire racing up his spine, chest bowing outward at the sensation, and he struggles to open his eyes, gaze bleary when he finally manages it. 

Tony shows him the third clamp and slides a comforting hand down his sweat slick belly before curving down to brush his fingers over Steve’s sac. “You want it here baby?” he asks, low and hoarse, gaze hungry on Steve’s face. 

Steve nods almost desperately and Tony smirks softly but doesn’t hurry to attach it just yet. “It’ll hurt,” he cautions, “worse than your nipples, you sure?”

“Y-yes, please Tony, _ please,” _ he sobs, tears wetting his lashes, chest heaving as he tries to roll his hips and fuck himself on Tony’s cock. The other man digs his fingers into Steve’s thigh with a sharp murmur to _ be still _ and it’s hard, the hardest thing he’s done, not moving when Tony’s cock is inside him and every instinct screams at him to _ move. _

Tony studies him for a moment before nodding and then attaches the clamp and everything goes white. Pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced rips through him and then pleasure crashes in alongside it as Tony thrusts, hard and fast, over and over again. 

Steve’s throat is hoarse—from screaming, he thinks, he’s not too sure because everything is a haze of pain and pleasure—and his face is wet with tears, his sobs loud as Tony fucks him. 

He curls over Tony, hands fisting the sheets and distantly he hears a ripping sound as Tony growls and grips his hips and fucks up into him harder, faster. “C’mon Steve, come for me,” Tony demands, gasping and groaning as Steve’s body clenches around him, the wave of his release coming hard and fast at Tony’s command. 

He’s on his back before he realizes it’s happened and Tony’s over him again, cursing and moaning, face contorted in pleasure as he drives into Steve, demanding more pleasure from his overwrought and sensitive body. 

Steve cries, tears of pleasure rolling down his temples and into his sweaty hair as Tony fucks him. The older man grabs his chin in one hand and forces their gazes to hold as his other hand grasps Steve’s, lacing their fingers together. 

“I got you baby, I got you,” he croons breathlessly, leaning in to kiss Steve sloppily, panting and moaning against his mouth as he thrusts into Steve. The hand at his chin disappears and Tony smirks against his lips, “Come for me baby, one last time,” he murmurs and then removes the clamps, searing pain following. 

Steve screams again and shudders, writhing beneath Tony, muscles stretching and flexing as he sobs, his tired and aching cock spilling once more between them. 

Tony curses loudly and cries out, Steve’s name like a prayer on his lips as his hips stutter and his release spills against Steve’s hot, bruised insides. Collapsing forward, Tony’s muscular forearms bracket Steve’s head as they breathe raggedly together, lips sliding against each other in a passing attempt at a kiss. 

His hands feel weighted down by lead but he manages to lift them to twine into Tony’s hair and grip at his hip, pulling him closer and deeper inside him. He kisses Tony tiredly, lazily, unable time keep his eyes open as the older man tugs at his hair gently and angles his chin so he can deepen the embrace.

Long after Tony goes soft inside him they stay like that, kissing slowly, limbs twined together, Tony’s soft words of praise sweet against his tongue when he chases them down, tongue flicking behind Tony’s teeth to see if he can swallow them. 

When the cum and lube on their skin is cool and tacky Tony slides off him with a wince and a grin, “I’m getting too old for leaving dried cum on my skin overnight,” he jokes, holding out a hand to Steve, “c’mon, shower time.”

Steve goes willingly and wraps Tony in his arms while the water cascades over their bodies, his fading glow from the sex diminished by Tony’s words. 

_ Too old _

He doesn’t like to think of Tony as being old—sure he has grey hairs and wrinkles, but he still wears the Iron Man armor with pride and ease, sparred with him everyday for at least an hour and could outwit any villain any day. 

Pressing his lips to Tony’s greying hair, he inhales the scent of sweat and sex and _ Tony _. “You’re not old,” he whispers, unsure if he’s been heard over the wash of water around them. 

Tony laughs though, so he must have heard it. Tilting his chin back, he looks up at Steve and smiles—sadly, it seems to Steve—“Not all of us are gonna live forever,” he murmurs with a wry smile, fingertips brushing Steve’s flawless skin. 

And there it is; they both know that someday Tony will die, that he’ll leave Steve behind, still youthful, still strong, and Steve knows, it’ll be the worst day of his life. 

Instead of answering, he bends his neck and kisses Tony desperately, hands clutching and pressing into Tony’s skin till Steve is hard again and gasping into the embrace.

As Tony jerks him off and kisses him beneath the cascade of hot water he shakes from the pleasure and the realization that however long they have left—it won’t be nearly enough. 

* * *

_ Tony _

_ Have I told you how much I love watching you sleep? I _ ** _know_ ** _ , you think it’s weird, but there’s something about seeing you so relaxed and unaware of the world’s problems, resting that big beautiful brain of yours. You’re smiling in your sleep right now and it’s...damn Tony, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. _

_ I hope I get to watch you sleep for the rest of my life. _

_ Yours, always, _

_ Steve _

* * *

Tony’s eyes are closed—he’s not sleeping, just...resting his eyes—fingers pushing gently though Steve’s warm golden hair, the scent of fallen leaves and dying things on the breeze. He’d normally need a sweater to lay out on the porch like this, but with Steve wrapped around him like a blanket, he’s plenty warm. 

They’ve been spending more and more time here at the cabin, and though SI continues to consume most of his attention, he still finds the time to work on the suit and help Steve when they get an alert that the Avengers are needed. 

Occasionally Natasha or Rhodey will join them, but so far it’s been low level threats easily handled by just the two of them. 

It also means that he and Steve train together everyday and have learned to fight side by side once more, and some days it feels like nothing ever changed between them. 

Distantly he hears tires on gravel and Steve stirs a moment later, sighing softly against his collarbones, breath warm and wet. His large hands cling to Tony for a moment longer before he pulls away with a disgruntled sound, hair mussed from Tony’s fingers and eyes hooded with sleep. 

Tony traces the lines on Steve’s face where his shirt pressed into the skin, smiling softly, fondly. 

“Someone’s here,” Steve murmurs, eyes growing more alert by the second, though he leans into Tony’s touch easily, sighing softly when Tony rubs his cheek with his thumb. 

“Mmhm,” he agrees, “better go make sure it’s not a Jehovahs Witness,” he jokes, grinning when Steve shakes his head and rolls his eyes, lips curling up into a fond smile. 

Steve rises to his feet and pulls Tony along with him easily, smirking as he tugs him against his warm, broad chest and cups the back of Tony’s neck, brilliant blue eyes shining down at him filled with love that remains unspoken. 

“Hey there handsome fella,” Steve murmurs, Brooklyn accent thickening, one large hand spanning across Tony’s waist. He loves how Steve’s body provides protection and strength; the younger man seems to have an unending well of it—able to train longer and harder than Tony and still sweep him off his feet in the evening to dance around the kitchen while Etta James plays. 

He knows it’s Steve’s way of caring for him—of showing his love without saying it. He makes breakfast for them and cleans and makes sure Tony eats at least twice a day and shows Tony new moves for protecting himself if the armor fails—endlessly patient and soft spoken, hands gentle as he shows Tony how to survive. 

Smiling, he leans in and kisses Steve, melting into the embrace as those large hands hold him like he’s something precious. His throat grows thick and he swallows hard when Steve pulls back minutely, lips barely brushing as Steve holds him and just breathes.

Someone calls Tony’s name and just like that, the moment fades. 

Waiting on the porch for them are Natasha, Rhodey and Scott Lang. 

Tony comes to an abrupt halt, Steve’s broad form bumping into him before righting them both when they stumble. 

“I thought you were dead,” Tony murmurs, voice raspy and low. 

Scott shakes his head, “No, just stuck in the quantum realm,” he explains, like that has _ any _ meaning at all—except Tony knows, _ understands _, what that means.

Tony is silent as Steve brings drinks and snacks out and plays host while Scott talks, explaining a plan that isn’t just idiotic, but possibly catastrophic. 

_ Time heist _ he scoffs internally, _ Christ _ what a joke. They’d all end up dead if they tried this—and what good would dead Avengers be to the world?

Peter Parker’s face floats in his mind and he swallows his coffee hard, looking away as his throat burns and his vision swims. 

It’s just the coffee, he lies to himself. 

Scott looks to him hopefully, brown eyes wide and desperate and Tony’s gut churns. 

“It’s impossible,” he tells them all, gaze dropping so he doesn’t have to see their disappointment. 

“Tony after everything you've seen, is anything _ really _ impossible?” Natasha asks softly, slim fingers reaching out to wrap around his wrist. 

He flinches under her kindness and forces himself not to see Peter and Barnes, Wanda, Strange and T’Challa...everyone they lost and the trillions more throughout the galaxy that he’ll never know but will still bear the weight of their loss on his shoulders.

He shakes his head and looks up at Scott, “Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck scale, which then triggers the Deutsch proposition. Can we agree on that?” he demands.

Scott nods reluctantly and he huffs out a “Thank you,” in return.

At Natasha’s furrowed brow he sighs and explains, “In layman’s terms, it means you're not coming home.”

“I did,” Scott protests and Tony glares at him, “No. You accidentally survived. It's a—It's a billion-to-one cosmic fluke!” he retorts sharply, anxiety winding tighter and tighter in his chest. 

“And now you wanna pull a...What do you call it?” he demands, hand making a sharp movement towards Scott. 

Steve leans forward beside him and lays a gentle hand on his knee, warmly reassuring, firm, and exactly what he needs right now.

“A time heist?” he scoffs, nails digging into his palms as he tries to maintain his cool. They all look at him like he should be able to _ fix this _ when he wasn’t even able to _ stop it _ in the first place and he’s falling apart, a little more with each moment that passes. 

“Yeah. Time heist,” Scott mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“_ Of course _ . Why didn't we think of this before?” Tony laughs bitterly, “Oh! Because it's _ laughable _ ? Because it's a fucking pipedream?” he snaps, hating himself for the way they all look at him—he can _ see _ the disappointment in their eyes and he _ hates _it. 

Natasha leans forward again and meets his uneasy gaze with her own steady one. “The stones are in the past. We can go back and we can get them,” she murmurs, voice pleading and soft, “We can snap our own fingers. We can bring _ everybody _ back.”

Tony looks away, throat too thick and chest aching painfully. He scrubs at where the reactor used to be, inhaling brokenly and shakes his head, “Or screw it up worse than Thanos already has, right?” he bites out, exhausted suddenly. 

He just wants to be left alone. 

“I don't believe we would,” Rhodey tells him, and when he looks over at his best friend he sees the pleading look in his eyes and very nearly shatters at the sight of it. 

He shakes his head, “High hopes won't help if there's no logical, tangible, way for me to safely

execute said time heist,” he tells them. “I believe the most likely outcome will be our collective demise.”

Scott exclaims wordlessly and shakes his head, “Not if we strictly follow the rules of time travel!” he argues, “That means no talking to our past selves, no betting on sporting events…”

Tony stares at him in disbelief, “I'm gonna stop you right there, Scott. Are you _ seriously _ telling me that your plan to _ save the universe _ is based

on Back to the Future?” he demands incredulously. 

Scott at least as the sense to look abashed when he mutters_ no. _

Tony is tired of this, ready for them to leave so he can be back in the comforting embrace of Steve’s arms, blissful silence around them. 

“Good. You had me worried there. 'Cause that'd be horseshit. That's not how quantum physics works,” he mutters, leaning back to scrub a hand over his face. _ Christ _ he’s so tired…

“Tony…” Rhodey’s voice is low and pleading, and when he opens his eyes he finds the other man smiling sadly at him. “We have to take a stand.”

“We did stand. And yet, here we are,” he replies, waving a hand to encompass all of them and everything they’d lost.

He knows—better than most—exactly what they had failed to do. He’d held Peter in his arms as he crumbled to ash, and he still hears his pleading voice in his nightmares—_ please Mr. Stark, I don’t wanna go. _

“I know you got a lot on the line. But I lost people very important to me,” Natasha murmurs, “A family,” she whispers brokenly, reaching up to clutch at a necklace with charms on it that he’s fairly certain hold the names of Clint’s family. 

“A lot of people did,” he replies, gaze turning away so he doesn’t have to see the tears in Natasha’s eyes. 

“And now, now, we have a chance to bring them back. To bring _ everyone _ back,” Scott murmurs urgently, “And you're telling me that you won't even…”

“That's right, Scott. I _ won't _ . ** _Leave it,_ ** ” he snaps, chest aching and burning and he can’t...he can’t breathe, _ why _ can’t he breathe? 

“I wish you'd come here to ask me something else. Anything else. Honestly, I missed you guys,” he whispers, rising to his feet to back away from the group, a falsely bright smile on his face. 

“Oh Steve’s made lunch, there’s plenty for all of you,” he casts out as he moves toward the front door. Rhodey intercepts him, moving close to catch his elbow, dark eyes intent and Tony’s insides squirm at the firm look his best friend pins him with. 

“Tony, I get it,” Rhodey murmurs, his pointed glance at Steve sending a flush over Tony’s cheeks. “And I'm happy for you. I really am. But this is a second chance,” he says intently, squeezing Tony’s arm as if to keep him from slipping away. 

“I got my second chance right here, Rhodey. I can't roll the dice again,” he whispers back, “I can’t.” 

He pulls his elbow away and casts a bright smile over his shoulder at the group, “If you don't talk shop, you can stay for lunch.”

They don’t stay. 

* * *

Steve watches Tony throughout lunch, his own brow furrowing with concern as the lines around Tony’s eyes grow deeper, his gaze steadily more distracted and distant. He knows if he tried to discuss what had happened with Tony the older man would deny there was a problem at all, and in fact, when he _ does _ mention the idea of time travel, Tony brushes it off and flips the conversation to Steve’s charity and the work they have left to do on the new locations. 

Tony paces around the house, distracted and mumbling by halves, pausing at his workshop for a moment before continuing on to another task. In the space of three hours Tony chops wood, does the dishes, repairs the lamp he’d taken apart, and not once does he step inside his workshop, something seemingly holding him back. 

Steve can see the way his body grows more tense with each hour that passes, his hair mussed and untidy from his hands furrowing through it and Steve _ finally _steps in his path and waylays him with a hand to his hip, smile soft and gentle when Tony looks at him in confusion. 

Telegraphing his intentions, he moves slowly, bending down till he’s just a breath away from kissing Tony and then waits, just a moment till he hears the slight intake of breath that means he’s captured Tony’s attention and then closes the distance. 

He kisses Tony slow and languid, hands skimming down the firm planes of his chest and around his hips, sliding up under his tshirt to press gently into the flexing muscles of his back. Tony pants softly against his lips and Steve smiles, hands sliding down again, nails scraping the skin of Tony’s back to elicit another, louder, gasp. 

Tony arches into him with a low murmur of Steve’s name, hands fisting in the material of his shirt, and Steve smiles at how good it sounds to hear Tony say his name like _ that _. He pushes gently, nudging Tony back until his shoulders bump into the wall and then in one smooth move grabs just under the swells of Tony’s ass and lifts him. 

The older man gasps and then laughs softly, lips curling up when they part to grin at each other. Tony’s fingers rake through the strands of gold that have fallen forward into Steve’s face, smile soft and fond. 

“Hey there handsome,” he murmurs, “thanks for the lift.”

Steve chuckles, heart constricting with love, fondness welling within him at the way Tony’s smiling at him—soft and warm and Steve dares to hope, _ lovingly _. 

Steve hums softly and kisses Tony briefly, a mere brush of lips before he moves on to the stubble of Tony’s jaw. “Gotta take care of my best guy,” he replies, teeth gentle against the skin of Tony’s throat, revelling in the way Tony makes a soft sound deep in his throat at the sensation. “Have to make sure you get what you need,” he whispers, tongue flicking delicately at the mark he’s begun leaving on Tony’s skin. 

“A-and what is it I need?” Tony replies hoarsely, hands clutching at Steve’s shoulders as he sharpens his bite and sucks, Tony’s low moan echoing alongside his own deeper one. Steve ignores the question for the moment, focusing instead on rolling his hips so the hard line of his cock presses into where Tony’s is starting to rise. 

The skin beneath his teeth is flushed red, purpling just a bit at the edges where his teeth have sunk deep and when he licks at it Tony groans and bucks into him, gasping softly in Steve’s ear. He shifts slowly, lowering Tony till his feet are back on the ground and then pulls back just enough that he can make constant eye contact as he slides to his knees. 

“_ Me _ ,” he whispers, “you need _ me _,” staring up at Tony, praying he’s right about this. 

Tony’s gaze is dark and hungry, piercing as he stares at Steve like he’s searching for the answer to the universe in his eyes. His fingers shake as he reaches out, Steve notes, and when they slide against his cheek he can feel the callouses on them from a lifetime of soldering and hammering and fighting. 

These are the hands of a creator, a warrior, a _ hero _. 

He turns his face and kisses Tony’s palm, the sound of a sharp inhale reaching him as he lifts his own hand to wrap his fingers loosely around Tony’s wrist. He turns the hand he’s captured and kisses each finger, lifting his gaze to meet Tony’s as he does. He guides Tony’s hand down and then presses it to his heart so Tony can feel the way it’s jackrabbiting in his chest, his breath fluttering out of him as he holds it there. 

“_ Yours _ ,” he whispers, pressing Tony’s hand more firmly into his chest so he understands. “I’m _ yours _.”

Tony’s eyes go wide for the briefest of moments before he curses softly and grabs Steve’s neck with his free hand, tugging till he’s forced to his feet and then dragged in for a kiss that’s a demand, an apology, a promise. It’s heat and tongue and teeth and he’s gasping into it after mere moments, a whine low in his throat. 

Tony growls low and nips at his lower lip till it’s a throbbing point of pain that’s immediately soothed with his tongue. “Mine,” Tony whispers hotly, hand twining into Steve’s hair, pulling and tugging, “Mine,” he murmurs again, pushing Steve toward the stairs with an air of urgency that makes Steve’s gut tighten with need. 

They stumble up the stairs trading biting kisses, hands pushing and pulling, grabbing too tightly and yet not _ nearly _ enough. Steve’s shoulders bump into the doorframe and Tony stumbles, kicking off his shoes and they grin between kisses, hands reaching for the other as they strip and fall to the bed. 

Tony pushes him back against the pillows and straddles his hips but instead of diving in and devouring him, he leans back and stares down at Steve, eyes dark and awed. Those thick mechanic’s hands are gentle as they trail over Steve’s broad muscles, delicate as they trace lazily around his nipples, the power in his touch enough to make Steve’s cock twitch and leak where it’s trapped against his belly by Tony’s body. 

Tony’s thumbs brush teasingly over the peaked tips of Steve’s nipples, the pleasure sweet and warm and he arches into it, body silently begging for more. 

“Mine,” Tony murmurs softly, brushing over them again, firmer this time. Steve nods, breathless and dry throated, unable to form words as Tony pinches down on the sensitive tips, rolling them between his fingers as Steve keens and gasps. Stars bloom behind his eyes as Tony leans down and captures one with his mouth, the heat and pressure of his tongue against the aching flesh making Steve whine desperately. 

_ Mine _Tony bites into his flesh, teeth sharp against the tender bit of skin between them, over and over again. Blinding points of pleasure and pain litter his chest and when he manages to open his eyes he gasps at the sight of his torso, pleasure shooting through him at the sight of the bite marks Tony’s left on his skin. 

“Please,” he gasps, not even sure what it is he’s begging for, he just knows that he wants _ more. _ Tony smirks and rakes his nails over the skin of his torso, bright lines of ecstatic pleasure that leave him gasping and arching, breath sobbing out as Tony does it again, nails catching on the tips of his nipples this time. 

“_ Mine _,” Tony whispers fiercely before bending down to suck a mark on the sensitive skin beneath Steve’s ear. He chuckles at Steve’s whine, the sound reaching low into his gut, like Tony’s grabbed into the very core of him and claimed it for himself. 

“Yours,” Steve agrees, hands fisting in the sheets, aching with the need to touch Tony. It must be obvious because Tony chuckles again and reaches out to take Steve’s hand in his, laces their fingers together and then leans in to kiss him, hard and hungry. Steve’s free hand skims over Tony’s hip, the muscle there flexing under his palm before his fingertips slide up over the curve of his ribs, dancing against the ridges of his spine before delving into the silver dusted curls of Tony’s hair. 

Tony is pressed to him, every inch of skin that’s against his is slick and hot and _ gorgeous _. Tony grinds his hips down and Steve gasps as Tony’s cock slides along his; Tony takes the opening and licks into Steve’s open mouth, teasing and demanding, leaving him breathless and floating. 

Steve clings to Tony’s hair and squeezes down on the fingers twined with his as Tony kisses him senseless and rocks their hips together. _ Please _ he gasps, hips arching pleadingly, ragged gasps falling from between wet, bitten red lips. He’s worked over already, shaking with desperation and aching for Tony to keep pushing him, to...to _ ruin _ him. 

_ Please _ he begs again and Tony groans against his mouth, hips rolling into Steve’s, the slick slide of their cocks together leaving him shaking with need and holding onto Tony desperately. It’s a chant from his clumsy tongue, Tony’s name, pleading and gasping as Tony slides away from him and reaches for the lube on the side table. 

He pushes Steve’s knees up and out till he’s spread out and exposed, cheeks burning as Tony blows cool air over his hole, sending it quivering and clenching with need. He keens as Tony makes a soft hungry noise, gasping at the cool touch of wet fingers at his hole. 

“Mine,” Tony croons, pushing in firmly so Steve gasps, the burn leaving him shaking and trying to push down for more. He rolls his hips, begging for more, but stills when Tony puts a hand on his hip and shushes him, thumb rubbing softly at the crook of his thigh. His eyes are teary when they meet Tony’s as the older man kisses along the inside of his thigh, lips curled into a smile. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, teeth nipping at Steve’s skin as he works another finger into him. Steve is panting hard as Tony’s fingers twist into him, spreading him open as he leaves more marks on his thighs, brilliant pain blooming under his skin. 

“Please, _ Tony _,” he whines, breath hitching in his chest as Tony slides a third finger in and searches out his prostate, a shout rasping in his throat as Tony attacks it, teeth latching to the meat of his thigh. 

“Mine Steve, you’re _ mine _,” Tony growls, the slick sound of his fingers inside Steve lewd and loud and Steve flushes with shame at how much he loves it, loves the way Tony utterly ruins him. If anyone saw him now they’d be appalled to see Captain America so broken down and debauched, begging for it without shame. 

If anything, the thought of someone seeing him like this makes him hotter, floating on the idea of Tony taking him apart in front of someone else so they could see just how badly he needs Tony, how hard he tries to be _ good _ for Tony. 

After everything he’s done to hurt Tony, he can do this—he can be _ good _for Tony, he can take what Tony gives him, whatever it is he wants, Steve can do it. 

Tony switches to Steve’s other thigh, working more marks onto the pale gold skin as Steve moans and whines, the near constant stimulation on his prostate sending waves of heat lightning pleasure through his gut. It twines up his spine, too much, too strong, and yet not nearly enough. 

Something hot and wet engulfs the head of his cock and he shouts, head falling back with a sob as Tony takes his cock into his throat and swallows. It’s gone a moment later and Tony’s voice is raspy when he speaks. 

“Come for me Steve, come on now baby,” he croons before taking Steve’s cock back into his mouth and sucking—the intense heat and pressure so overwhelming with the stimulation to his prostate that he shouts as he comes, sobbing as Tony swallows and sucks till he’s clean and shaking. 

The fingers inside him slip away and he whines at the loss, though he’s quickly soothed by Tony’s mouth against his, the tang of his release still on the other man’s tongue as it flicks against his sensitive upper palate and then slides against his own. 

“Please,” he whimpers, clutching desperately at Tony’s back, “need you,” he gasps, shaking with how empty he feels without some part of Tony inside him. He _ needs _ Tony with a desperation that shakes him to his core, and when Tony kisses him again he clings to the older man, salt on his lips from the tears that have fallen. 

Tony hushes him and reaches down between them and a breath later he’s pushing in, the stretch leaving him breathless. “God, you’re amazing..._ Steve _,” Tony rasps, lines deepening around his eyes as he gazes down at Steve with a look of awe that leaves Steve’s insides quaking with its intensity. 

Steve gasps and Tony pushes in, reaching to lace their hands together above Steve’s head, muscles flexing as he holds Steve in place, lips brushing together in a bare imitation of a kiss that’s mostly gasping breath and wet lips but holds Steve in place better than any restraints ever could. 

He shakes as Tony thrusts into him, the weight of his cock filling him so perfectly it leaves him gasping against Tony’s mouth, lashes wet with tears he’s unashamed to cry. He breathes out Tony’s name like a prayer, spine arching as Tony fills him, over and over again, breathless gasps of _ please _ and _ more _ falling from his lips. 

“Please Tony, _ please _ ,” he gasps, voice raw from his sobs, skin tingling with every touch. It’s pure agony and ecstasy, every thrust like a blow to his senses, as though Tony is intent on leaving him marked so deeply inside and out that he’ll never be able to get rid of him—not that he’ll ever _ want _ to get rid of Tony or the marks he leaves behind. 

“Got you baby, I’ve got you Steve,” Tony murmurs, voice strangled as he thrusts harder, head dropping to rest his brow against Steve’s, large brown eyes holding Steve’s in a gaze that leaves him weak and desperate. Tony smiles crookedly, sweat pearling on his brow as he rolls his hips and squeezes Steves hands where they’re held in his. 

“You gonna come again for me?” Tony asks breathlessly, kissing Steve hard for a moment when he does nothing more than whine desperately. “Come on Steve,” he pants, lips sliding along Steve’s, “show me how good you are,” he demands, “show me you’re mine.”

Steve whines and nods, tilting his chin up so Tony can kiss him again, moaning into it when one of Tony’s hands slips away to grip his cock, the electric sensation of it leaving him gasping. Tony thrusts harder, groaning as Steve’s body clenches around him, biting down on Steve’s throat, the sharp sting of it heavenly. 

He’s floating as Tony mutters praise in his ear, tongue licking up the salt on his skin, the hand on his cock too tight and too hard and _ exactly _ what he needs. “Tony, god, _ please _,” he whines, gasping when Tony fucks into him harder, the intense pressure inside him growing with each breath he struggles to take. 

“C’mon Steve, show me you’re mine,” Tony murmurs urgently, licking into Steve’s mouth hungrily, “come on baby,” he growls out, the hand on Steve’s cock flying. Steve cries out, feeling as though everything that’s ever tethered him to reality is snapping away, leaving him floating, kept safe only by the weight of Tony’s hands and voice and cock. 

Tony’s thumbnail presses under the head of Steve’s cock, flicking it as he rolls his hips, driving into Steve with a force that jars him up the mattress, near sobs falling from his lips as Tony hammers into him, the relentless drag and press against his prostate leaving him in tears. 

“Mine, mine, _ mine _ ,” Tony snarls, teeth closing on Steve’s throat and it’s _ that _ —the possessive clench of teeth and the uttering of that possessive _ word _—that’s what finally sends him over the edge. He chokes on Tony’s name as the air is sucked from his lungs, eyes blowing open to watch Tony’s face as he pounds the orgasm out of him. 

It’s like molten iron has been poured into his skull and it’s dripping down his spine, melting him from the inside out. When he’s next able, he sucks in air and sobs out Tony’s name, back arched up as Tony grits out Steve’s name, heat spreading inside him he distantly realizes is Tony’s come. 

“Mine,” Tony pants out alongside each thrust, hips slowing till he’s still and panting, teeth and tongue hot and slick against his neck. Steve relishes in the weight of Tony’s body pressing him down, holding him to the earth so he doesn’t just float away. The skin on his face feels stretched thin, salty, like he’s been on the beach, and just as sunbaked. 

Tony pulls back slowly, lips trembling as he smiles down at Steve, the weight of the world no longer on his brow. Steve’s fingers tremble as he reaches up and brushes at the corners of Tony’s eyes, trailing them down his cheek before catching on Tony’s lip. 

“Mine.”

The lips curl beneath his fingers into a wide smile, “Yours Steve, _ yours, _” Tony murmurs tiredly, eyes soft and affectionate.

Steve’s eyes fall closed once more as Tony slumps against him, the beating of his heart steady alongside Steve’s.

_ Mine _

_ Yours _

* * *

Tony finishes cleaning up the empty ice cream dish he’d found by Steve’s easel, wiping it out with a towel as he stares into the distance, pondering the visit they’d had this morning. The plea he’d seen in Rhodey’s eyes had made his stomach churn—he hadn’t seen it look like that since he’d woken in the hospital after he’d OD-ed a decade to the day since his parent’s death. 

Swallowing hard, he sets the bowl down with a shaky hand, breath sawing out of his throat, panic blooming in his chest as his gaze flits about the room in search of three blue items, two brown and one red, breathing as evenly as possible till the panic drains from his lungs and he can fully inflate them. 

Looking up as his pulse evens out, his gaze lands on the photo by the window. His gut clenches as he reaches for it with a shaky hand, breath rasping out as he stares down at the picture of he and Peter—an actual, honest to God picture(sentiment be damned, there’s something about holding an image in your hand that’s just..._ right _)—and recalls the day they took it. 

It was the day they’d faked the certificate so the kid could come by anytime he wanted—a handy excuse for his Spider-ing activities. He remembers the minute his heart had clenched with love when Peter had laughed at one of his dorky jokes and grinned at him like he hung the moon. That was the moment he’d been sure that he wanted kids someday. 

His throat squeezes when he pictures Pepper’s face, that dream long dead now. 

The frame clatters to the counter top and he looks away, jaw clenching. 

* * *

“Look at a mod inspiration, let me see what checks out,” Tony murmurs, pushing up his glasses with an exhausted sigh. “So, recommend one last sim before we pack it in for the night. This time, in the shape of a mobius strip, inverted. Please?” 

He reaches for his mug and grimaces at the cold coffee that greets him, setting it aside with a sigh, hands running through his hair for the umpteenth time tonight. 

“Processing…”

He glances at the clock on the wall, rubbing tiredly at his eyes when he sees it’s just past 4am. “Give me that eigenvalue. That, particle factoring, and spectral decomp.”

“Just a moment.”

“And don't worry if it doesn't pan out,” he mutters, stars blooming behind his eyes as he rubs harder, glasses bumped up on his knuckles, “I'm just kinda…”

“Model rendered.”

He opens his eyes and stumbles back, the wind knocking out of his lungs. 

“_ Shit _!”

He stares up in awe at the model glowing in the air, full of promise, and is _ terrified. _ This isn’t just a theory or a hope or a dream...time travel is _ real. _

It’s real, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“You solved it?” 

Tony spins and finds Steve standing in the doorway, bare chested, cotton sleeping pants slung low on his hips, teeth marks and bruises exposed and for a moment a flash of heat surges into Tony’s belly. It passes a moment later when he sees the sleep being rubbed out of Steve’s eyes—and for a moment he can so clearly picture what Steve must have looked like as a boy, sleepy, soft and innocent. 

Nodding, he reaches out a hand to Steve, smiling when the younger man hurries to take it, letting himself be pulled forward till he’s at Tony’s side and the older man is able to lean his head against Steve’s warm side. 

Steve’s big broad hand comes up to toy with Tony’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp and Tony hums softly, leaning into the touch. “Yea, solved it.”

“What do you want to do?” Steve murmurs and when Tony looks up he only sees love and curious inquiry in Steve’s eyes. For once, Tony isn’t afraid, he has all the support he needs to make this leap. 

Tony leans up and Steve meets him halfway so Tony can kiss him. 

“I want to fix it.”

* * *

_ Steve, _

_ I can’t believe you still write me these damn things, you sappy sentimental man. It’s a good thing I love them. _

_ And you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I said it while you were asleep last night to see what it felt like and it...it’s right. _

_ I love you. _

_ Tony _

* * *

_ Tony, _

_ I’ll write you letters everyday till I die if it makes you happy you big softy. Hearing you say I love you this morning, getting to hold you...Tony, it’s everything I ever wanted. _ ** _You’re _ ** _ everything I ever wanted and everything I’ll ever need. _

_ I love you. _

_ Steve _

* * *

They bring together all the best minds of science—Tony, Scott, Bruce, Shuri and some of Selvig’s notes that Tony had kept after...well, _ after _ . They spend hours, days, _ weeks _, creating the structure needed, the suits to take them safely through the quantum realm, and with the help of Shuri, further production of Pym Particles. 

They create a plan, split into teams, and then it’s just them, staring at each other across the platform and Steve winks at him before they hit their devices and are sent hurtling through the quantum realm. 

And then, everything goes to shit. 

* * *

Vormir is, in Clint Barton’s opinion, the _ most _ depressing place in the galaxy. He glances over at Nat and they share a grin, stepping closer to keep each other’s backs covered, scouting the cliffs in the distance as they peer into the misty grey of the planet’s barren landscape. 

A chill crawls over his spine, a sense of foreboding following their quiet footsteps, and when he glances over at Nat to see if she feels it too, she grimaces at him and he knows she’s just as unnerved as he is. 

Whatever this place is, he can’t wait to get off this haunted rock. 

* * *

Tony stares blankly at his father, panic sluicing through his veins as it turns his stomach bitter. He’s ten again, terrified his old man is going to beat him for being in his workshop and he flinches when Howard steps forward, pressing him again for his reason for being in the lab. 

His brain jumpstarts and he fumbles out a lie, and when his father—_ Christ _ this is weird—asks for his name he manages to pull out a convincing lie with _ Anthony Carter _ . Howard nods after a moment and asks if he’s related to Peggy and Tony just nods weakly— _ cousin— _he lies. 

They take the elevator up and Howard chatters on about his pregnant wife and how he was hoping for a girl so he wouldn’t have so much to deal with and Tony chokes on bitter, acrimonious words, then chokes for real when the elevator stops and Steve gets on, gaze narrowing when it falls on Howard.

Howard’s eyes widen at the sight of Steve and there’s a shift in the air as Steve straightens and looms over Howard menacingly. 

“_ Steve? _ ” Howard breathes, incredulous. “H-how? W-w- _ how?” _

Steve uses the full force of his presence to force Howard back and glares at him for a moment before he hauls off and punches him square in the jaw and then watches with satisfaction as he crumples to the floor like a sack of potatoes. 

Tony gapes and takes the hand Steve offers as the elevator doors open on an empty hallway and lets himself be pulled along, Steve’s hand dropping from his as more people round the corner. There’s a cry of alarm from behind them and Steve puts a hand to the small of his back and pushes gently, hurrying them down the hallway.

They stumble into an empty office and hide in the dark while people rush past outside, the commotion dying down a few minutes later. Tony grabs Steve’s hand and tugs him over to the window, peering down at his knuckles worriedly when Steve laughs softly and draws his gaze up. 

“You know it didn’t hurt me, right?” he murmurs, clear blue eyes bright and warm, a fond smile curling his luscious mouth up. “It takes a better man than Howard to break the skin or draw blood.”

Tony swallows at that, throat thick at the idea of Howard hurting Steve and rubs his thumb over Steve’s unbroken knuckles before lifting them to his lips and brushing a kiss over the skin.

“My hero,” he murmurs, only a little teasingly, mostly heartfelt and a tiny bit broken—but Steve just smiles and closes the little bit of distance between them and kisses him, soft and sweet. 

“Yours,” he agrees, the word like honey on Tony’s lips as Steve whispers it into his skin. 

The sound of the door opening has them stepping apart, both men going wide eyed when Peggy Carter walks in, shock draining the color from her face. 

Steve steps forward and smiles reassuringly, “How about that dance doll?” he asks softly and then moves rapidly to catch Peggy as she sways, face pale as a ghost, hand trembling when she reaches up to touch his face. 

Her sob is broken and wrenching and Tony turns away to give them privacy. He hears Steve murmuring her name and explaining in bare bones what he’s doing here and her voice cracks when she says his name again, soft and pleading, as though she wants to ask him to stay, but knows she can’t. 

Tony turns back and watches Steve write down the coordinates to his body and then hesitate, large hand cupping her delicate cheek, and Tony can see the tears on both their faces as they stare at each other. 

It breaks his heart a little to see Steve lean in and kiss her, but he knows it’s goodbye and doesn’t begrudge him the opportunity to say it to someone he loves. 

Steve pulls away from her regretfully and presses one last kiss to her cheek, whispering something that’s too soft for Tony to hear, but brings a shaky smile to Peggy’s lips. 

She watches them go, a scrap of paper and a compass clutched tightly in her hand, hope in her heart for the first time in years.

* * *

“No!”

The sight of tears in Clint’s eyes hurts worse than she thought it would, and her lips tremble as she smiles up at him, the cold wind rushing around her as she dangles over the edge of the cliff. 

“Let me go,” Nat urges gently, smiling softly at him, heart in her throat as Clint sobs and pulls on her harder, struggling to pull her up without them both falling. 

“** _No_ ** ,” he grits out, shaking his head hard, and her heart cracks open as he clings that much harder to her. “ _ Please _, no,” he whispers, voice shaking, tears finally falling. 

“It's okay,” she whispers back, voice wobbling, “I love you, tell the others I love them too,” she orders, fear and adrenaline kicking through her, making her shaky, “Tell James…”

“_ Please _…” Clint gasps, “don’t make me do that.”

She needs a second, needs to not see his devastated gaze, needs to prepare herself. 

Closes her eyes.

Breathes. 

Opens her eyes again and smiles. 

“Tell James I love him.”

Clint shakes his head no and tightens his grip and then she’s pushing off the cliff face and flipping away, air rushing past as she flies and falls and falls and…

Shatters, like a tiny porcelain Russian doll. 

* * *

Rhodey slams Clint into the wall, pulse pounding in his ears, “Wanna run that by me again?” he snarls through clenched teeth, desperately hoping Clint will say something _ different _ this time. 

_ She’s gone, _ Clint had said in a choked voice— _ gone, _like that explained what happened, and Rhodey, he’s, he...he won’t accept it until Clint says it again. 

He sees Tony take a step forward in his periphery, but he’s stopped by Steve’s hand on his shoulder, holding him back with a quiet murmur of something too soft for Rhodey to hear. 

Clint’s throat pulses under his hand and he leans back a little, allowing the younger man to breathe, his eyes haunted and wet as he gazes back at Rhodey. 

“She sacrificed herself for the soul stone,” Clint repeats, “She wouldn’t let me—said...she said…” he chokes and presses the back of his hand to his mouth, shaking as he struggles not to cry. 

Rhodey’s hand slips away numbly, dread filling him. 

“She said I had to make sure we win. To tell you all she loved you.” Clint looks up at Rhodey and tears roll down his cheeks, “She wanted me to tell you she loves you.”

Rhodey stares at him till his eyes go dry, the words ringing in his head, deafening him to all else.

_ She loves you _

_ Make sure we win _

_ She’s gone... _

He looks up and finds himself in the suite he and Nat share at the compound, her clothes still draped over the bed, hairbrush on the bathroom counter, strands of copper hanging from its teeth. 

His fingers trail over her things as he wanders room to room; callouses catching on the soft silk scarf he’d bought her for her birthday.

He lifts it to his nose, the fabric slippery and cool in his fingers and inhales the scent of her that still lingers there. 

Chanel and sunshine and _ Natasha _fills his nose and he sinks to the ground beneath the window, head falling back against the wall, body aching like he’d gone four rounds with Thor. 

He closes his eyes and only reopens them when a door opens and someone sits down beside him. 

“Hey platypus.”

The warm, fond voice of his best friend shatters the steel around his heart; heat grows in his eyes as tears form, throat thickening till it feels like he can’t breathe and then he’s gasping, heaving, trying to breathe as he sobs, turning into the embrace that Tony freely offers. 

Tony tucks Rhodey’s face into his throat and rubs his back, silent.

There aren’t words for this. 

* * *

They assemble the stones in the gauntlet Tony has created and Bruce snaps his fingers and Steve watches out the window, trying to figure out if it’s worked when Clint’s phone rings. 

They watch in amazement as he cries, talking to his family, and Steve realizes in a moment that’s like a punch to the gut—they’ve done it. 

He meets Tony’s gaze from across the room and goes to step toward him, smiling as he reaches for him, the words _ I love you _on his lips, and then the world explodes.

* * *

Tony digs through rubble, breathless and terrified, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that Steve’s ok. 

_ C’mon, just...just let him be ok. _

“EDITH, where is he?” he demands, hands shaking as he leans against the wall, breathing heavily. 

“Two hundred feet to the left boss. Respiration looks good, if a little slow.”

Tony hurries, feet slipping on debris, arms pinwheeling as he pushes his way through the rubble to where EDITH says Steve is laying. He waits for the scan and then shifts rock and rebar and dirt till Steve’s face and torso are visible and he can see that Steve is breathing, slow and steady. 

The nanites retreat and he inhales the smell of concrete and steel and_ Steve. _He’s so unbelievably fucking happy it steals his breath for a moment, chest aching as he bends in half and presses his forehead to Steve’s chest, the subtle rise and fall reassuring.

“H-hey Shellhead.”

Tony sits up and blinks back tears at the sight of Steve’s open eyes. The younger man smiles and reaches up to brush concrete dust from his hair and Tony lets out a shuddering breath of gratitude. 

“Hey, there’s my man,” he replies unevenly, voice a little too thick to pass off as just dust in his throat, even if his eyes are watering too. 

Steve smiles softly and leans up on an elbow, tugging him down for kiss that he accepts easily, happily. 

_ Yours _the kiss says. 

_ Mine _he agrees. 

“I love you,” Steve whispers, swallowing hard. If they don’t make it...if something happens to one of them, he needs to make sure Tony _ knows _.

Tony smiles and nudges his nose against Steve’s, heart aching in his chest. “I love you too,” he whispers back, pulling Steve in further for another kiss that lasts till EDITH alerts them to Thor’s imminent arrival and the monster waiting for them outside. 

They get to their feet as Thor finds them, and together, they walk out to meet their destiny.

* * *

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony freezes when he hears the voice, painfully familiar and excited. He turns and sways at the sight of Peter, smiling brightly at him as he steps forward, hair tousled and eyes bright. 

“Holy cow Mr. Stark! You will not _ believe _ what's been going on! Do you remember when we were in space? And I got all dusty? I must've passed

out, 'cause I woke up, and you were gone. But Doctor Strange was there, right? He was like, "It's been five years. Come on, they need us!" And then he started doing the yellow sparkly thing that he does all the time…”

Tony grins as the kid rambles and steps forward, “God, c’mere kid,” he breathes, throat so thick he can barely get the words out as he embraces Peter. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, sounding stunned, arms not closing around Tony and it breaks his heart a little, that he’d pushed Peter away so often in an effort to protect himself, to guard his heart against losing someone he’d come to think of as a son—and then had lost him anyway. 

“I got you kid, I got you,” he breathes out, holding onto Peter tighter till he hugs back. 

“This is nice,” the kid says in a soft voice and it reminds him so painfully of all the times Jarvis or his mother had held him and he’d finally felt safe. 

He pulls back slightly and kisses Peter’s cheek before hauling him back in for another embrace. 

“I got you.”

* * *

Time and tide of the battle tears them apart, scattering them to the wind as they do battle against Thanos and his creatures, but Tony doesn’t miss it when Steve calls Mjolnir to his hand and deals a resounding blow to the Titan’s skull that rings out like a bell being struck.

Pride swells within him—he always knew Steve was worthy. 

* * *

“Captain!”

He hears the voice in his comms, distant but urgent and then again; “_ Captain _!!”, more urgent this time.

He looks up and catches the eye of Quill, and then follows the finger the man is pointing across the battlefield to where...

Steve’s stomach fucking _ drops _ like a hammer and he clenches the one in his fist tighter. 

_ Tony is on his knees before Thanos. _

Steve wields Mjolnir like a berserker, smashing through enemies as he screams over the comms “Avengers, Assemble!” 

He shouts it as he battles his way across the hellish miasma of ichor and dust and bone, heart racing as he tries to get to Tony. He slips in gore and pants for breath, terror clutching at his ribs, heart trying to beat out of its cage and he tastes fear, bitter and vile. 

The landscape shifts around him and gold light sparkles and then suddenly he, and every member of the Avengers are at Tony’s side.

He glances around sharply and blinks when his gaze connects with Strange’s, relief sinking into him at the pleased little smile that’s faint upon the other man’s lips. 

Strange makes a motion for him to speak again and when Steve straightens and faces forward he sees the legions of Thanos’s armies laid out before them. 

He reaches down and offers his hand to Tony without looking, exhaling unevenly as Tony takes it, fingers trembling in the remains of his suit as he clutches at Steve. 

Rhodey steps up and grabs Tony’s other elbow, holding him steady as they lift him to his feet. 

Rocket had explained what they had done against Ronan, how they had channeled the power of the stone through their bodies—but even with he and Rhodey and the others, he’s not sure it’ll be enough to stop the stones in the gauntlet Tony is currently wielding from tearing him apart.

And then the Jabari begin to chant, their cries a challenge, echoing across the wasteland in defiance of the man who has come to destroy the universe for good. 

Steve says it calmly this time, extending his free hand out to lace his fingers with Bucky’s, his best friend reaching out to Shuri with a look that’s oddly shy for the battlefield, and on and on down the line, until the cries of the Jabari fill the air and his own voice is hoarse from joining in. 

** _“Avengers....ASSEMBLE!”_ **

They brace themselves as the enemy lurches forward and beside him, he hears Tony laugh, joyful and defiant as he lifts the gauntlet in the face of the oncoming storm and spits back at Thanos’s monologue, “And I am Iron Man.”

He chances a look and meets Tony’s gaze, warm and exhausted and terribly frightened, and decides that if this doesn’t work he can’t abide the thought of Tony not knowing how he feels so he leans in to kiss him, breathing out_ I love you _as Tony’s fingers snap and then there’s a blinding white light and the warm press of Tony’s lips against his and then....

* * *

Tony is on bed rest for days after the battle—the stones had destroyed his armor and had damaged his right hand and arm and even with Dr. Cho’s cradle and Wakandan assistance, there’s little chance that Tony will ever have full functionality back. 

The stones are used with care to restore forests and rivers and to clean up the atmosphere, disintegrate mountains of trash and restore lost species to their natural order—correcting the mistakes of man, as Tony says to Steve while they watch a herd of deer wander through the remains of the compound. 

They debate keeping them, to help others here and around the galaxy, to aid in the fight against evil, but eventually, it is decided that returning them in time is the only way to keep them from being abused _ now _. 

* * *

Rhodey watches Clint and Nat argue over who’s going to sacrifice themselves and waits till Clint is looking out at the wastes of Vormir before he steps out and catches Natasha’s eye, holding a finger to his lips before lifting up the canister used to contain the stone for her to see. 

She stares at him, wide eyed for a moment and then sprints silently across the rocky space between them and leaps into his arms, her shaky breathing in his ear so goddamn real and alive that it brings sudden hot tears to his eyes. 

He tosses the stone to Red Skull and gives Natasha a quantum device set to take her back to the future. She smiles at him and it’s like the sun, bright and warm and glorious and just before they press the buttons, she leans in and kisses him. 

White light blinds him as they press the buttons, time and space pressing in around them, and then...then they’re back. 

Natasha cups his face and stares at him intently, reading the lines that grief have carved into his face in such a short time, her own eyes growing bright as her smile quivers. 

“We won,” he whispers hoarsely, lips dry as he pulls her closer and kisses her, relief and sorrow in equal measure making him shake. 

They won, but at great cost. 

He holds her close, head tucked under his chin so he can run his fingers over the silky strands of her hair, unwilling to let her out of his arms, or line of sight. He inhales and breathes in the scent of her, warm and familiar and it lodges something in his throat. 

They stare out the wide window at the devastation to the compound and he exhales unevenly, pressing a kiss to her brow that’s tender and heartfelt. 

They won and he’s got his whole world here in his arms. 

* * *

It’s frustrating for Tony to not be able to do the fine tuning and delicate precision work he’s been able to do since he was four, but now that he’s in his fifties it feels like _ everything _ is slowing down on him. 

He can’t train as hard and as long as he used to and the damage to his body after decades of fighting makes itself known in new and painful ways each day. The damage the stones had inflicted on his body just slows him down more, bones aching and protesting as he tries, tries so goddamn hard to keep being Iron Man. 

Steve doesn’t say anything about him slowing down, just gives him massages and adjusts their training schedule till one day when Tony’s heart skips and he’s on the floor with cold sweat on his brow and Steve’s hand on his chest, brow furrowed in concern.

EDITH tells him he’s had an arrhythmia and when the doctor he consults with tells him that his body can’t handle the strain anymore, it’s like being set free in a way.

_ You’ve been on the wire long enough Tony, it’s time to let someone else carry the weight of the world, _Steve tells him that night after dinner, large hands working out the knots in Tony’s back with a gentle power that takes Tony’s breath away. 

He rolls over and pins Steve to the bed, makes love to him because even if his body can’t fight anymore, it can still do _ this _ , it can still _ love _. 

He’ll love Steve everyday till he dies and becomes ash, and even then his love won’t end. 

* * *

They spend months cleaning up and repairing the damage done to the compound, and when it’s _ finally _ done, Tony announces to the world that the Avengers Academy is officially open to young applicants from every country and planet. 

Their message is broadcast across the galaxy and the universe knows that it is defended, safe, and if nothing else, _ avenged _. 

* * *

“What about this one?” Steve murmurs in Tony’s ear, chin propped on his shoulder to peer at the projection from Tony’s watch. 

Tony hums and nods, fingers moving so the data flips by before landing on a name and a photo. 

“Riri Williams,” Tony muses, lips twisting in a smile. “She’s made more improvements to her armor,” he notes and they both watch as the young woman in a suit of armor eerily reminiscent of Tony’s fights off an attack from a group of highly trained and weaponized men. 

“Looks like Avengers material to me,” Steve murmurs, lips pressing to Tony’s neck for the third time in as many minutes. 

“Mmm, I think you’re just trying to rush me so you can get what you want,” Tony hums, chuckling softly when Steve smiles against his skin and doesn’t say anything. 

“And what is it you think I want?” 

Tony grins and shuts off the projection, twisting around to face his husband. 

“Me.”

Steve nods and leans in to kiss him, “Got that right fella,” he murmurs with a fond smile, tugging on the neck of Tony’s shirt to pull him closer, thighs spreading so Tony can settle more comfortably against him. 

There are deeper lines around Tony’s eyes now, and his hair is more silver than it is black, but he’s just as handsome as the day they’d first met, and Steve loves him more now than he ever has before. 

Steve cups Tony’s face as he slides into Steve’s lap, thumb gentle against his cheekbone, tracing over it again and again. 

“Looking for more wrinkles?” Tony teases, and Steve just shakes his head fondly and leans in to kiss him. 

“Just lookin at _ you _,” he whispers, smiling when Tony hums and presses into him, intent in his hips obvious as they roll down into Steve’s, the kiss deepening as Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s golden hair. They trade lazy kisses, deep and warm and breathtaking, until Steve’s lips are bruised feeling and swollen and he’s a little light headed with desire. 

He traces Tony’s face with his fingertips, grateful for the serum that allows him to feel each line and sunspot and piece of what makes Tony, Tony. 

“What?” Tony asks softly, curious at what’s going on behind those beautiful blue eyes, skin feathering around his eyes as he smiles softly at Steve, fingers sliding into the golden strands of his hair to tug gently. Steve’s lashes flutter at the heat that spreads through him from the sensation and it takes a moment for him to be able to respond, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. 

“Nothin,” he murmurs, smiling softly through hooded eyes at Tony, “I just love you.” He flushes a little and Tony smiles fondly at it; he loves the way Steve’s golden skin turns pink as a rose when he’s flustered or aroused. Tony brushes his lips against the pink and then again, over Steve’s lips this time, feeling it when Steve exhales unevenly. 

Tony pulls back and smiles, brushes his thumb over Steve’s full lower lip, “I love you too.” 

Steve smiles joyfully, and something in Tony’s chest aches a little, like a three day old bruise being poked. It feels like the breaks that had shattered him apart over and over again in this cruel world heal a little more with each smile that Steve gives him; each embrace and kiss like a balm to his wounded soul. 

“I’ll love you forever,” Tony tells him, “however long that is, it won’t be enough, but it’s what we have,” he says, voice low and thick, the swell of emotion in his chest making his ribs ache. 

Steve’s clear blue eyes grow bright and shiny and it makes Tony’s heart lurch at the way his face has stayed so young and honest looking. He sees it suddenly—their future and the way Steve will _ always _look young and beautiful while Tony grows older and fades away. 

“You sure you want to love an old man?” he asks softly, throat tight as he smiles, pained and too stiff. “I won’t always be able to keep up with you. I’m already getting slower and weaker.”

Steve sighs softly and cups his cheek, eyes painfully fond, “I’m sure that I’ll love you everyday of the rest of our lives together and beyond that.” He laughs a little, “I look forward to seeing the day you can’t keep up with me Shellhead—you’ve always been three steps ahead, I’m the one who has to play catch up.” 

Tony laughs at that too, lashes wet as he nods and leans in to kiss Steve. 

When he shifts back to press his forehead to Steve’s they’re both breathing unsteadily, faces wet with tears, lips warm and red. He smiles and links his fingers with Steve’s, brushing the smooth metal of his wedding band while Steve returns the gesture. 

“Forever then?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse. 

Steve smiles so brightly it’s like the glow of Tony’s old reactor, steady and warm and constant. 

“Forever,” Steve agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, whether you've loved it or hated it, this is the end! There will of course be more one shots of this universe as I have time and inspiration to write them, but for now, let me thank all of you for your kudos, comments, and bookmarks! If you'd like to see certain things in the future one shots, leave ideas in the comments, or send an ask over on tumblr @ therollingstonys for me, Mod Stella!!
> 
> I saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
😭 = I got you right in the feels  
🔥 = this was so hot!  
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


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